Have you ever fallen in love?
by TimeLadyat221B
Summary: Post-Reichenbach A torn and worn John Watson is trying to get on with his life but everything around him either reminds him or mocks him. So when an old friend turns up after an unfortunate event, he is determined to get answers, but will an on looking enemy take it to his advantage?
1. Have you ever?

John Watson's life had been dragging since Sherlock had… died.

He was awoken by the sunlight or a worried Mrs Hudson, he never really saw or talked to people; they tried but he would say something that reminded him or he wouldn't say anything at all to save himself the pain of remembering. Mycroft called, Lestrade was never seen near 221 B after the night he arrested Sherlock, the night he fell. Molly was a nervous wreck all the time, she came around to check on John, she came to the funeral and visited everyday the first year of his death but they never talked much, she still felt guilty for what she helped Sherlock do, for what she did and what they where still doing to John.

It was only a month into the new year when John broke his first New year's revolution; Throw his phone away, and he had, he had checked it everyday, every second on a bad day. Just in case it was all a dream and Sherlock rang wanting him to meet him and some obscure crime scene or to pick him up at the airport, but it never happened, never such a call or text. He changed his ringtone so he knew who it was, one song for each person. Sarah had even called a few times, asking…checking on him.

But today was John's birthday and, if anything, he wasn't going to wallow.

**_What do normal people have in their normal lives?_**

So John went out, with Sanford and some officers he'd gotten to know with his time working with Scotland Yard. Getting hammered with a butch of officers can only go one way.

"So Watson, how old are ye' tonight?"

"some things are better left unknown, don't you think, Greg?" John laughed as they got out of the taxi and where met by 11 or so people outside and Irish themed pub, Greg laughed and gestured for John to go first, the mixed sent of beer, food, smoke and more beer filled John's senses, making him smile as he took a breathe in. "No, no. We're paying. You go get a table" Smiled Greg when he pulled his wallet out, thankful for the offer but disappointed when he realised Stanford hadn't come.

They sat in a long booth for ten, squished up slightly to let on the extra few, near the door to the small yard of the pub so smoke would billow in and surrender to John's eruge of something, anything that would make him forget. But tonight was his night. So they laughed and drank, played drinking games and truth or dare, they talked in small groups but all the while John felt as if he wasn't there. More like he didn't belong there. These people where colleges and friends but they were strangers when it came to talking, no one liked the same TV shows, it was all breakfast shows and football with the male officers and people TV with the women, so John scrapped the TV talk and went to work, which was a bad idea, everyone knew his story, or part of it. Army doctor, Sherlock's college and then retired from both now at the surgery… again. A tedious job really, but this was his night. He wanted to have fun.

"SPIN THE BOTTLE!" Yelled one of the happy-drunk girls who was now sat on a very uncomfortable Declan Raymond's knee as she laughed herself to liver damage.

So the bottle was spun and kisses where passed, drinks where downed and John's vision began to blur and he started to become a happy drunk to so when it landed on him when Lestrade spun it, he simply didn't care.

Then the 'Have you ever's' started

"Have you ever slept naked"

"Have you ever dreamt of a college"

"Have you ever slept in a skip"

"Have you ever kissed a girl"

"Have you ever kissed a boy"  
"Have you ever loved a guy" "Sherlock" came John's slurred answer, unfortunately he was sober enough to feel his heart sink at his word's, to feel the tension Greg was letting off and he stormed out of the pub leaving 10 confused drunk's, a silent Detective Inspector and a broken hearted consulting Detective.


	2. Sherlock

John's heart was thumping, his pulse in his ears so loud he didn't hear the shouts from behind him when he entered an ally way by the side of the pub, a short cut to the main road so he could stop a cab before he forgot where he lived, then came the louder voices.

"Oh! Am talking to you. OI!" When John finally lifted his head he saw 6 tall thin boys, about 18/19 years old heading to him, John rolled his eyes and carried on walking, ignoring the calls of two of the taller kids, a dark lanky boy then came from behind him and took a swing, John moved out of the way lazily then stood still, just stood as the other 5 boys got angry by the fact John had avoided the first blow and now was standing, mocking them.

With the next blow John wasn't o lucky, when he stepped to move out of the way he tripped over his own feet and stumbled into one of the bigger lads, small and plum and stinking of fags. "Come to dance pretty boy?" He asked in a heavy cockney accent then he pushed John up and off him and into the first lad who hit him in the stomach then came the rest of the boys, hitting and slapping John and all he could do was bump and fall into them, his vision getting worse as the pain of the rest of his body made him dizzy and sick in addition to the alcohol so what he heard next was ignorable due to the fact he was pissed, broken and falling to the floor as he heard a rough Londoner accent come heavy with panting and gasping, the voice was angry. But not with him, with them. The last thing he saw was a blurred image of a dark-haired pale bearded man kneeling beside him as he cradled the soldier's head.

Meanwhile

"You shouldn't have BEEN there, Sherlock. You know you shouldn't have and yet you went. WHY?!" Was the stretched voice of Mycroft Holmes when Sherlock had been brought into the Diogenes Club to be yelled at by his older brother, he didn't have time for arguments, but he sat there all the while Mycroft yelled, making points about how everything was at stake, how he was the one putting John in danger by being in London. Sherlock's brain was buzzing and he would have argued and walked on his brother, he would have told him how selfish he was being and run to St Bart's to see John for himself, he was alive when he'd got there and he was only knocked out but he lost a lot of blood and John was all Sherlock could think of, his bleeding head and bruises, his grunts of pain and slurred whispers.

So instead Sherlock stayed, he stared at the floor and completely ignored Mycroft's presents. F or a short while the room matched the silence of the rest of building and Mycroft just starred at his brother. Or the broken remains of him anyway. Sherlock had added to his facial features, scars and hair alike yet it was his eyes that Mycroft couldn't bare to look at. The pure tiredness of going good while Sherlock's only emotions existent slowly destroyed him. After when seemed like forever to the older Holmes brother, Sherlock stood, nodded and left the Club in silence and headed straight for the hospital.


	3. John's list

John's whole body was numb with whatever drugs where pumping trough his body through the needles sticking out of his arm. He wasn't surprised he had ended up in St Bart's, even if the attacker's attack was laughably shit, he had had a big blow to the head, or blows, he couldn't remember. John's vision was shit too, when he opened his eyes all he could see was light; white and red and black. But all in all; light.

He lay still and clam and ignored the various buzzes and beeping surrounding him, then a thought occurred, more like slapped him in the face. If he didn't remember the attack, what else could he not remember?

So he began a metal list of the things he had done in the past week or so then a list of people.

Mum- alive and well, lives alone in a cottage in Surrey

Harriet- sister, drunk, failed marriage to friend Clara

Stanford- St Bart's teacher, Londoner, friend

The list of soldiers, dead, alive and un known was a list John didn't want to think about, Shopping lists where long enough, never mind a list of various men that lived died and survived in a war.

Molly- works at Bart's, kind, lives alone… he thinks

Lestrade- Detective-Inspector at Scotland Yard, Friend

Anderson- Pain in the arse according to Sherlock.

Sherlock- Consulting Detective, flat mate, friend, _dead_

John couldn't go on with the list; he had done what he didn't want to do on his birthday… Birthday

_Shit._

Then he remembered that night; out with Lestrade, drunk game of 'have you ever' and his declaration of love for Sherlock. Hopefully no one took him seriously though; he didn't want anyone to know. Not that it mattered. Sherlock being dead and all.

And there he was reminding himself again. He shut his eyes gently and let him fade to a deep sleep. But he had dreamt of the hospital, filling in details that he hadn't known because he hadn't looked around. He dreamt of the man who had hurried to his side when he was mugged, again filling in details and came up Sherlock. His mind wondered and ended up back at the hospital bed, but he wasn't in it any more. He was looking in on himself, battered and bruised and asleep while Sherlock sat with his hand in John's and sobbed quietly "I was so stupid John, I'll fix it. I'll get Moran and you'll get better and everything will be okay. I promise." Then the voice was gone and so was he, faded to black in moments of the voice stopping. John woke soon after, his hand half closed on it's side like he'd been holding onto something, a scar was draped over the chair closest; John starred at it for ages that seemed like seconds and his head filled with hope and wonder and noise of buzzing questions until a little voice at the front told them to stop. He was dead. He had jumped. He had landed. On his skull.

John slept no more after that. He couldn't, he asked the nurse on duty who had visited but the description was Lestrade, not Sherlock. The voice in his dreams had been Sherlock's… John's memory yet the word's where his own, Sherlock wouldn't say sorry or promise anything. But then again, Moran sounded familiar. John decided to ask his most trusted friend. Google.


	4. Searching

He was dismissed two days later with stitches, painkiller and antiseptic for his cuts.

He got a back to the flat and hobbled up the stairs.

He went straight towards the laptop on the messy desk; the desk that held boxes and empty cups and bottles and paper and John slumped in a wooden chair and turned the laptop on. It took a few moments to load then it was a light with his background, him, his mum and dad, his dad in his army uniform. The last photo of the together. Harry hadn't even called telling them she couldn't make it to the airport to see him off.

He opened a search engine; he wasn't really fussed on which one and ended up in Google anyway.

**"Moran"**

**About 75,700,000 results (0.23 seconds) **

'Shit' he mumbled under his breath and thought for a second.

**"Moran, criminal"**

The top results where "**Jason Moran"** and "**Mark Moran**" who had died in 2000 and 2003 so John scraped them from his mind and lent back into the hard chair.

He searched his area of expectances in his mind and came up with a grateful short list.

Criminals

Soldiers

Hospital employees

_Soldiers… __**Soldiers.**_

**"Soldier records Moran Afghanistan"**

The top name was "Jim Moran" but nothing came to mind, John slammed his laptop shut a bit harder than he expected but shoved it away anyway.

'Moran. Moran' He muttered to himself. It was probably hours later when Mrs Hudson came up to check on him and found him angry with frustration; He'd gone to saying names at random and adding Moran to the end of them and hoped that one would ring bells but Mrs Hudson interrupted at "Gary" and he stopped for tea with her.

He explained what happened to him the night he was mugged yet not mugged because his wallet was with him and so was his phone. He considered weather or not to ask Mrs Hudson about Moran but he knew he'd tell Mycroft. **Mycroft.**


	5. Falling

Sherlock however had more insight to Moran and his… business, than John did. And Sherlock wanted to keep it that way.

Funny feeling, love. It's like lots of other little feelings all bundled together and thrown at you. He wasn't in love with John, or he thought not anyway. He missed him though. He just wanted to sit and talk and laugh and run and argue only to see John smile at him when he became confused over what was happening and everything was okay again. Sherlock wanted it. Now more than ever. Which is why he hadn't been sleeping, why he didn't bother shouting at Molly when she came blundering in without knocking because she forgot he was there, yet again.

Molly's flat had become Sherlock's last hope of peace and quiet.

Meowing and a kettle boiling, he could manage, but her constant stuttering over weather or not he wanted anything or if she could do anything bugged him to a point where he would have moaned and ignored her and gone out for a walk but now Mycroft knew he was in town he doesn't know who'd be following and what if it caught Moran's attention?

John's attention?

Lestrade's attention?

Sherlock smiled slightly at his slowly brain, assuming Lestrade would still be lingering near John, near Sherlock.

Molly gave p attempts of talking and went out back with the cats, even though everyone knows cat's don't need owners careful eye to watch them piss in the night, all they need is a cat flap which Molly was still frightened of getting. Seeing the world in the eyes of a young girl who had heard and seen the stories of weird yet wonderful crimes about London and seen the victims last chapter stopped her, every time, from a cat flap or even going out at night

Meanwhile Sherlock lay, fully clothed, fully un-shaven on her dark-cream cloth couch starring at the white ceiling and trying to empty his mind of the week's "Adventures". As he moved backward through his days he stopped at John's birthday, the very words of the laughing drunk women inspector asking if any of the guys have ever kissed a guy then after a boring silence to ask if any of them had loved a guy. "Sherlock" John had said his name, drunk or not if meant something, but Sherlock idly passed it off as a drunken gesture, even though drunken ex-army doctors don't just leave in a hast and let themselves be beaten up by amateur thieves.

He was angry, and tired.

Tired in a way any person at the end of the day would be yet also in a way that a person who had had enough of the torment of accusations and comments and whispers about them and the people they loved and died. While Sherlock's mind buzzed with these idle though John slept in 221B, a shaky and disturbed sleep where he was in Sherlock's place, already sweaty in both real and dream life, watching a small yet strong John Watson on the ground as he sobbed quietly. He looked back and the image John had conjured up of Moriarty, starring at Sherlock with sunken eyes, all in black like he was already at his funeral, smiling slightly to himself as he gestured 'Sherlock' to take one last step. Then he was falling. John woke up in cold sweat as he bounced in his single bed, gasping for air as his phone produced a muffled beep from the inside of his coat pocket which was hanging on the bottom stump of his bed leg.

**I have information you'd be interested in. **

**Meet me when you can at the usual place.**

**-MH**


	6. Sebastian Moran

John starred at the text for a short while; thoughts buzzing about in his head. He'd called Mycroft about Moran but Mycroft brushed him off, as always, with an attempted of looking like he didn't know who john was on about. He must have learnt something good if he's texting John again.

_Cancelled his appointment._

John showered and changed within 15 minutes of receiving the text and was out the door with his gun tucked into the waist band of his jeans and his walking stick guiding his aching left leg as he walked out of the newly glossed door of 221B just as a black shiny car pulled up outside.

The journey from Baker Street to Mycroft's "Usual" place (the Diogenes club where the only room in which you could talk seemed off limits to anyone but Mycroft these days) was a short one. John still clutched onto his phone as they glided down the road's of London to Mycroft. The car was silent except from the purr of the engine, which suited John fine, he had to clear his head for any new information.

The driver, new by the looks of his uniform, gruffly announced their arrival at the club without turning his head to John, and sat like stone until John was on the curb and the driver sent the car in a graceful fashion into the stream of cars down the road.

John hobbled into the club and was escorted to the back room, a large room with glossy wood shelves and big desk covered in neatly stacked papers and newspapers, the seats where dark wood and cushioned with velvet green covers. The room had a light sent of whisky, scotch smoke and old books.

The short, stumpy man with dark hair and a thick bushy moustache took a sigh of relief when he entered, John behind him.

"It's hard not talking to guests all the time. May I take your coat?" He added in a strong Londoner accent, smiling.

"No thank you." John smiled back, not knowing how long he was going to be or if he needed to go straight out because Mycroft wasn't there yet, made it harder to decide what to do with himself. He ended up taking on the offer of a tea pot for both him and 'Mr Holmes' and sat himself in the chair in front of the tidy desk.

He sat still and silent for a while before he noticed the Sun's picture of Sherlock staring at him from a pile on the desk.

Sentiment, was John's initial thought but he saw Mycroft's largest pile where newspapers, staring with the first time Sherlock had been noticed as "BOFFIN SHERLOCK HOLMES". John remembered the paper well, he stood and looked around the room. No one coming in or past the office so he picked up the top paper, the last one Sherlock had been mentioned in. "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS"

Was the headline that glared at John Watson in big black ink letters.

He dropped it back on the pile and gave a big sigh.

"Ah John… you're early. Very eager aren't you?" Mycroft smiled as he entered the room wearing his usual three piece suit, carrying a brown paper back file and a tumbler half filled with scotch.

John smiled slightly at the elder's arrival and sat back in the chair while Mycroft placed the scotch on the desk and handed the file to John.

"Your interest with Mr Moran is a keen one at that. You've researched him more than enough times"  
"You've been checking my internet history?" John knew he shouldn't be surprised and knew the question was a stupid one once he said it, Mycroft just smiled his 'Well, obviously' side of the mouth smile and sat opposite John as he opened the file.

"Sebastian Moran, you where right to believe he was in Afghanistan. Sniper, relieved from duty after… bad behaviour." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his own words and smiled when John nodded in agreement.

"I've heard of him. I knew I had I just couldn't think of his first name for the life of me"  
"Yes. But this isn't about frustrations over an ex-soldier's name, is it, Doctor Watson?"

John knew he was playing with fire asking Mycroft for help on a name he'd heard in a dream while under the influence of dozens of painkillers and sleeping pills so he hesitated to go further into the convocation even though it was obvious what John wanted.

"John, Sebastian isn't just a soldier. Not anymore." Mycroft added, it annoyed John slightly that Mycroft was telling him what was written in front of him yet John was glad, there was to much information on the man. DOB, Jobs, parents, past homes, rank in the war. But John with drew his eyes and stared at the older Holmes.

"What do you mean?"

At his question Mycroft let a smile slid up from his lips, the first smile that John had witnessed from the man that was a 'So stupid' or 'I know something you don't know' smile, it was a smile that said 'get comfy, I'll tell you' smile. So John did.

And Mycroft did, even after the warnings from Sherlock he'd received when the younger brother had heard that John wanted to know about Mora. He cursed himself for using the name when he had visited John. He just wanted to let him know.

"Sebastian Moran went off the radar after he was deported back to London from Afghanistan and was put back on by an old friend of yours. Moriarty." He added at John's confused frown (Surly he didn't mean Sherlock) . "After the war he went to a new business. Hired assassin. beautiful work too but no one even got enough evidence to arrest Moran. He was noticed by Moriarty in his need of time a few years back and worked for him since then till now, still under his employment." He added, careful not to rise questions on how Mycroft knew this. So he carried on "Moran had killed a lot of people, it's only come to light after an sighting last year at St Bart's"

"He was there for Sherlock?" John asked, his voice raising with confusion.

Mycroft shook his head for moment and took a sip of scotch "I believe James wanted Sherlock to die by his own hand, complete the story. All he needed was a death that was Sherlock's doing alone. I think Sebastian was proving Moriarty with leverage over Sherlock, a threat. And from what I heard, he was there on business."

"Assassin."

John nodded to himself, everything was making sense… slowly "Who was he there for?" But Mycroft didn't need to answer, he saw it himself and stopped in his tracks.

"Me?"

John's voice was little now, soft and understanding. For the past year John had thought of Sherlock as selfish, as scared and broken. But he wasn't, he died instead of him.

John's realisation was clear in his face too. Mycroft sat down slowly and nodded to the doctor "he needed insurance, if Sherlock didn't jump, you'd die instead. Good plan really."

John looked up at Mycroft as if to say 'To soon, prick' but didn't say anything but "Thanks" and left.


	7. Neil the not so ill hospital patient

Sherlock watched John leave the Diogenes club and as he walked up the street, Sherlock watched him through the windscreen of the glossy black car as he peeped from under his stupid uniform hat Mycroft had given him that very morning.

"Where are you going?" He whispered sharply to himself as John turned up a road that was the opposite direction for Baker Street and of central London all together.

Sherlock drove down and around the route John was going in, "St Bart's" He muttered to himself when he realised the direction he was going in. Now he knew Sherlock could get there before him. He drove around through cobbled back streets.

He ditched the car in the back alley of a row of houses in clear view of CCTV cameras so Mycroft could send for it instead of Sherlock going back for it himself, he went to the backseat of the long slim car and changed from the dark blue three piece uniform and hat into pale blue jeans, a red t-shirt, matching red American trainers and a worn demin jacket topped off with a cap, tucking his long curly hair into it he showed the camera the keys and dropped them into a damp drain next to the car that ran the length of the alley way and trotted off to St Bart's where he would play confused visitor of his dying brother, Neil Thomas, a man which Mycroft had planted as a spy on Sherlock if he went back to the scene of the crime.

So when he got to the hospital Sherlock went down various hallways and wards, trying to avoid the obvious path John would go on to meet Molly, why wasn't very clear, but the fact he was going to her was obvious. To Sherlock anyway.

Meanwhile John was heading up flight of wide stairs to the lab in which he had texted Molly he would be and swung open the door to see her already waiting, tea in hand looking worriedly at the door.

"He knew." John started straight away, "he had to know. I heard him say the name then his brother, conveniently gave up all this" He waved the file in front of Molly's face "up to me. He told me, Moran was after me. What if this is Sherlock's warning?"

"John-"

"Before you say it. Yes I know, he's dead. But what if he warned someone else, one his… you know, homeless network people."

"I doubt it"

Molly's voice broke slightly as she spoke. Her and John had never really talked about Sherlock or the fall before now and it hurt her knowing Sherlock was there, was okay, was alive. But she had to act like she knew differently. Like she was broken because he was dead not because he was alive. Sometimes she wondered; if Sherlock had died, would it have hurt like it did now. John coming up with new and improved theories, new ideas to push for something more from Sherlock, when she knows one day, Sherlock will walk back into his life. Or knowing Sherlock, fall back into it (pun unintended and laughed at when noticed; you're welcome)

Meanwhile Sherlock was in the ward with Neil, his secret screen feeding through live footage from the extra cameras Mycroft had installed on demand of Sherlock in fear john, or molly, would follow in his footsteps… well his jump anyway.

"Anything?" He asked when he entered the room of the make-up bruised and bandaged man, Neil. Neil was a chubby tall man, black haired and scare faced from his short time in the war before his recruitment from Mycroft several years before hand.

"In the lab" He stated in an Irish accent that was more London than Irish through the years of living there.

"May I?" Sherlock asked as he lingered by the end of the bed.

Neil nodded slightly for him to sit on the chair beside him that was turned towards the door rather than the head of the bed, the portable screen was under his bright white duvet, the screen was split into four sections that could be changed by camera feed.

Right now the cameras he was looking at was number

2; Reception desk

3; Back door entrance

9; The lab toward the door

11; the lab facing in wards.

The others, to Sherlock's knowledge, where the front door, the inside hall of both front and back door, the café (3 angles), the stairs to the roof, the roof, view from outside via the roof and about 10 others.

Sherlock sat on the plastic chair and observed the screen, no sound because of interference with hospital equipment, so he just lip read what he could and deduced the rest.

"No idea what they're saying. Talking to fast"

"Shows excitement." Sherlock smiled.

"Go on. I work with your brother. I know what you Holmes's are like" raised his eyebrow in a challenging way.

"Molly's scared… she might slip up and she doesn't want to, yet again she doesn't want john guessing or going into this. John's excited, by the look of the file and the fact he was with Mycroft before here it's a file on Moran, he's happy he has new information and something to go on, he's walking around and smiling showing, yet again, excitement but molly just… doesn't want to be there. 'Sherlock must have said something to someone. Someone he could trust, the people he trusts usually have no idea of the power of the information he's giving them' Quite right too" Sherlock added proudly at the doctor's words.

Neil was smirking at Sherlock when he looked up, "What?" He asked straight away, bluntly.

"You." Neil smiled, "You really care for him don't you. How lonog have you been together?"

"Erm, 18 months before… the fall"

"Nice, how long was it before you asked him to be your boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend? Oh right, I haven't" Sherlock said bluntly, then went back to looking at the screen, changing the reception one a coule of times then put it back, when he looked back up Neil was still smirking at the younger Holmes brother "Can I ask you a question?"

"…Sure" John and Molly where still talking, off the topic of him by the looks of relief on Molly's face.

"Have you even been in love? Before John, I mean"

"What… what makes you think that I love John?"

_"That answer"_

Neil looked back at the screen leaving Sherlock frowning.

"He's leaving." Neil warned, Sherlock wiped his head to the screen and saw, like Neil said, John, who was heading out of the door with Molly on his arm.  
"We're going for a walk" Sherlock grinned taking long strides to the corner of the room where a black leather cushioned wheel chair awaited.


	8. The wondering mind of John Watson

John and Molly made their way down the long bright corridors to the café on the other side of the building; Molly was talking happily about a meal she had had with her family the Monday before. John listened yet his mind was always else where.

He clung onto Moran's file for dear life but talked nothing more of the subject, it was obvious that Molly didn't want to talk about it. Just like Mrs Hudson didn't, or Lestrade, or his own family.

So he didn't.

Molly choose a table for two nearest the salad bar, next to the wall-sized windows showing a good view of the car park.

They sat and Molly went to the corner to order their food, John's mind felt like it was floating; sleep. He needed sleep, but the only problem was that he didn't want it, he wanted to learn everything there is to know about Moran, just like he tried with Moriarty but the only way of learning those in's and out's was with help from Mycroft Holmes, now that he has it for Moran. Maybe he could stretch it for Jim's file-

John was caught in his train of thought by a long black car, gleaming in the little sun London had in-come to think of it, John wasn't entirely sure of the month.

The car was parked out of plain site, unfortunately for the driver it was in plain view of the café.

Unfortunately for Mycroft; John's sight.

Molly sat back down a short while after with a recipe and a number stamped onto a piece of scrap paper and two tea's

"So how's the search for work been going?" Molly asked, braking the thoughtful silence John had been indulged in.

"Work? Oh yeah, erm not bad, I got a part time job at the surgery and I help out in Mrs Hudson's shop from time to time"

"Good, good. Glad to hear it… Mycroft been on your case?" she asked, looking down at her tea, warming up her hands.

"Of course, he's never really off it though, is he?" John stated taking a glance at the black car.

A man was walking through the car park towards, a tall skinny man, wearing jeans, a cap over shaggy hair, short stubbly beard and a demin jacket. The man was talking to someone that was in the car before he had reached it. He took a look around the car park. Froze when he saw John's eyes on him. Then he got in the passenger seat of the car in a flash and the car was sent gliding down the road only seconds after.

John had the urge to get up, go out of the back doors and run after the car, follow it, watch it. But he knew full well where it was heading, and one guilty glace at the walking stick, leaning against the table and John's thoughts where shut off.

Just in time to, their food was here.


	9. Sherlock VS bedroom

"He saw us!" Sherlock moaned at his older brother who was sitting in a tall slim chair in his home in Western London.

"It wasn't-"

"It was your fault though. You moved the car, you told a driver to pick me up, you didn't even warn him that John was there. I doubt the man knew who he was!"

"Sherlock-"

"No, don't just. Don't. Leave me alone. I don't need your help."

With that Sherlock Holmes turned his back on his brother and walked out along a dark corridor lined with doors to his room.

His room was alight from the sun, the mass of papers, newspaper clippings, notes in Sherlock's own thin scrawl were all pinned to the wall opposite his newly made bed.

He sat on the edge of the bed string a the information, theories, the followings of Moriarty's "friends" then he stood and started to rip them done, right of the wall and scattered them to floor. The more he tore at the more the anger got to him.

The anger of everything the half year had thrown at him.

Moriarty, Leaving John, Mycroft, Molly, the lies, the hope the shattered plans, killing and imprisoning members of Moriarty's 'cult'.

Irene hadn't show her face since Sherlock had killed her "manager" the man that passed out the messages for Moriarty to her, the man she met multiples of times, he was gone, Moriarty gone and Irene had nothing.

Sherlock carried on, ripping, yelling, moaning.

Mycroft was a very clever man for taking all fire arm away from Sherlock the day he had come knocking, drunk and probably high as a kite asking for money, asking for help the first time since he was six.

Mycroft remembered Sherlock's childhood memories like it was yesterday. Mainly because he felt like Sherlock was still a child.

But one really stood out. The last time Sherlock asked for anything from Mycroft; after their father had died and their sister was ill, so very sick. Their mother juggling grief, pain and health care and Sherlock was in the centre of the bomb that had exploded (not literally) in the Holmes family when his father passed away, he had cried and slept in Mycroft's bed. He had begged his brother to do something.

"_Please_ Mycroft." He moaned "we _need_ father. Bring him back" Sherlock had pleaded.

All Mycroft had to answer was the fact he couldn't, that he wasn't a god or an angel but one night Sherlock had moaned at him once to often and Mycroft yelled at him, hit him and told him everyone dies and Mycroft, mother, father GOD couldn't do anything about it.

Their mother had heard and it broke her heart. That's when Sherlock stopped asking questions, when he stopped crying, when he tried his best to heal his mother only to make the gaping hole in her heart tear further apart.

Now is was Mycroft's turn be torn apart.

He loved his brother, he really did. But both of them never really had time or the emotions to show it.

Mycroft made his way to Sherlock's room; he could hear tearing paper inside and the frustrated grunts of Sherlock trashing his room.

Mycroft stood outside the door, careful not to lean on the door or step between in front of the line of light that entered Sherlock's room from the gap beneath the door yet Sherlock froze to listen.

_Busted._

Instead of waiting for Sherlock to call Mycroft in he took the liberty of opening the door himself.

The room that had been tidy only that morning was now littered with torn paper, with clothes and shoes. "I know, I'm lucky I took your guns and knives away" Mycroft said when Sherlock opened his mouth in defence.

Mycroft walked in, careful not to step on any paper, knowing Sherlock it was all pure gold.

He sat on the edge of his bed and just watched him.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I'll make sure someone checks up on him"

"Not Molly" Sherlock huffed as his stood. "Not again, he'll catch on. He's not that stupid."

"I'll take your word for it" Mycroft smiled back "I'll help in any way I can. I'm always here".

Sherlock frowned, this wasn't the brother he new, his brother would be pushing him to get up and go and see john. To tell him the truth, to get John to help. Feelings only blocked his judgment.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Meanwhile John Watson was half way to 221 B when he got a call from a very drunk, very emotional Harriet, rolling his eyes he talked over the rawr of the traffic on the main road, trying to hear what she was saying.

"Joooooooohnnnnnnn I can't shem to find meh kesh" Harry sang down the line once John held the phone up his ear.

"Harry, you're unbelievable"

"No I'm not bulimic" Harry slurred back.

"Harry, where are you?"

"HOMMMMEEE" She sang loudly back to John who was making his way up the stairs to his flat.

"Okay Harry. Your keys. Check your bag."

"Not got no back Jwan" She said in a childish slur.

"Pockets, Harry Look in your pockets"

He was fiddling with his own key for the door of his flat.

He could hear the rustling on the other end of the phone. He waited, his phone held to his ear as he entered the uncluttered flat he called home and went straight to the kitchen, slid the file on the clear table, letting his finger slid over a long thin, curved scratch on his way back to the front room, flicking up the switch. Still with his phone to his ear.

"Fouuuund them Johnnny" She sang after a while.

"Lovely, now go have some coffee." He said, looking up to where Sherlock's chair way, his got rid of most of his things. A lot of it went to Bart's on Molly's suggestion. But the chair stayed, grey and small and holding a man with a scar down his right eye and a sniper gun leaning on the arm.

"Thought you'd never make it Johnny boy" He smiled.


	10. Lama and Moran

Sherlock met with Molly a few hours after he had trashed his room, the maids where particularly pissed off at him seem as though he got to stay at Mycroft's rent free and they still had to run around after him without any bonus's.

Sherlock would have apologies if it hadn't been for the tall, dark one calling Sherlock under her breathe in another language and the other maid translating everything to Mycroft.

They met at her house, a small cosy house with frill and pink and yellow, cats and moderately stylish furniture.

"Sherlock" she gasped when she opened the door, at first Sherlock thought that maybe john was there so he dipped behind the wall before she called him in.

"Haven't seen John since the hospital today, he has a file on that man you where talking about-"

"Mycroft gave it him." He explained as he sat down on her foamy-cushioned couch beside a black and white tabby cat, "Lama" Molly had explained the name coming from a niece, her brother's youngest and she'd taken it in when it came to light the girl's dad had an allergy.

Sherlock would have commented if he'd actually been listening. He was searching through the news channels, then onto the USB output and was scanning the security camera screen live feeding from Molly's front door, back door, garden and living room.

"Glad to see they're working again" he nodded to the TV turning Molly's attention from the cat to the screen.

"Yeah, Mycroft sent someone a couple of days ago. Nice man."

"Yeah they seem that way"

"What do you mean?' she asked shyly.

"Men… you dated Moriarty"

"You said he was gay, he fooled you" she said, rather pleased with herself for making a comment back.

"I wasn't wrong" Sherlock pointed out.

Molly frowned before realising, of course Sherlock knew everything about him by now. Second nature to him.

Molly fidgeted on the couch, with her long cream cardigan for a while before pulling the courage to mention John.

"He knows you're alive"

"Did you tell him?" Sherlock spat immediately, "because I told you not to, Molly I know you mean well but-"

"No. I didn't… I didn't tell him anything, I just stood back and listened to him building up his own hope… theories" she finished, looking back down at her cat who was curly its self on her lap in a lazy fashion.

"Oh… well good, okay" Sherlock said slowly, not knowing weather to thank her or not. He decided not to.

"He just… he reminds me of you" Molly said sheepishly, not looking at Sherlock.

"Well… I erm, good okay… is that… good?" he asked, stuttering.

"Yeah… you've rubbed off of him" she smiled, looking up but Sherlock was glued to the screen again.

"Well, okay. May I used your shower?" he asked, looking up, repelling molly's stare, she looked back down and nodded. "sure, of course"

Before she could offer coffee or the spare room, he was up, stretching and making his way from the living room to the hall way and the stairs.

John was frozen to the spot, shopping bag and keys in hand, coat hanging onto his shoulder's for dear life but his face was neutral.

"Sebastian" He nodded to the, very much, unwanted guest.

Sebastian flicked the switch on the lamp next to him, the dim glow made it so John had a view of his face; his thin lipped smile curling up to one side of his mouth, an unlit cigarette lazily perched in between his lips. The scar was long and jagged a pale white on his tanned skin. Stubble freckled his chin and jaw bone but unlike the pictures John had seen his hair was a dirty blonde, sticking up in every direction.

"John" He nodded back after was felt to John as hours.

"What do you want?"

"Johnny boy; how rude. No coffee? Tea? No?" He answered himself to John's un satisfied face, unmoving and straight.

"What do you want? Not to kill me." He nodded to the still and untouched long black gun at Moran's side.

In turn he smiled wider at John's deducing. He lent back in the chair lifting his leg over his other and folding his arms… mimicking John's stubbornness.

"Well that's obvious" He answered, "I was going to use if you wiped out that gun o' yours… but…" he trailed off, leaving John frowning before Moran answered John's silent question by nodding over to John's gun, crushed and burnt and left out on John's arm chair.

Sebastian chuckled to himself as John silently cursed himself for leaving the gun alone in the flat.

"Well you are royally screwed" Moran said, rather happily as he stood up slowly, "bit to literal if you ask me… visiting Sherlock's brother… wonder how you pay him for information, then again. I don't think my dear heart could take it"

His voice had changed from rough and happy to a silky, quiet mock and he glided over to John, trending quietly in his thick heavy green army boots.

When he saw John looking at them he smiled again and shrugged "Thought I might have needed to do some running… if you were smart and bough Mycroft back for… instalments"

At his heavy quick wink John lunged out his right fist, the connection to Moran's jaw made him stagger back in pain, his skin flourishing a pink-red colour under the white-brown he'd gained abroad.

He started to tut and spit out blood to the floor

_Bit his tongue._

Then he chuckled again; no Johnny, you're going it wrong. You're suppose to aim for the temple.

Everything went black surged in a hot white pain to John's head.


	11. The Video

There was three things John knew for sure;

Moran had been following him and was onto John for vengeance.

He'd been knocked out and probably worse and removed from his home.

John's head stung like a bitch.

A light was shining from above him into his eyes, his back ached and his face was throbbing, so were his wrists.

Once his eyes had adjusted he looked down on himself.

Blood stained his newly torn shirt, ragged, rough rope held his wrists in place on what felt like rock that turned out to be a stripped sofa, springs and wood woven on the outside of it, digging into John's back and sides.

He took a deep breathe in wards, regretting the notion as soon as he started.

He mouth was dry, neck throbbing, his lungs stung at the cold air that rattled through them.

"Morning" Sang a voice that echoed into the room and hit John like a first-drunk hangover.

He moaned, his throat sticky and dry made it hard for him to open it.

Shakily he raised his head to look forwards, the room was bright but the light restricted his view, as he strained to see past the bright, naked light from above the voice spoke again.

"You've been on a journey doctor. A long, painful one to won't remember much. That's okay because I taped it. Off to your boyfriend now."

John's first thought was Mycroft but thought it was stupid. Even for Moran. One look at the video and Moran will have to fight off Mycroft's men and heading to jail before John had even woke up.

Then again, Mycroft was Mycroft. Despite his 'Worrying' John was a burden.

So when John spoke, he chose to avoid Mycroft's name.

"Lestrade?" He pushed out, but at best was a quiet whisper. John couldn't hear much apart from the strong ringing voice and a constant hissing in his ears.

Like Shell Shock.

Then a laugh; it shook John's skull like a bomb. Ringing in his ears minutes after it had stopped, eventually it did stop and a word was whispered into his ear, closer than John had thought; "Sherlock".

It was John's turn to laugh.

"Sherlock? Sherlock's dead"

"You sure did fool the public, the press… but you're not fooling me"

"What are you talking about?" John's voice was straining to a normal volume even though he was trying to shout.

"Sherlock Holmes was a fake. That's the story Jim wanted, and he got it. Why on earth would Sherlock give Jim anything?"

"Jim? Oh Moriarty." John shook his head slowly; the ghosted image and James Moriarty filled his head like a vivid nightmare.

His smile in the courtroom, yelling by the pool, writing the "Get Sherlock J" message. It seemed so long ago to John, the days where John had asked Sherlock "What's Moriarty?" were well and truly over. So was he.

The room was silent again, making John totally aware of the hissing in his ear. Blow to the head, hard. He diagnosed broken wrists, shattered hip, sever bruising and scaring on hips, legs, back, face and head then his mind wondered to the blood.

"Why did you patch me up?" He asked in a husky whisper, trying to keep back vomit produced by shock.

"I beg your pardon?" The voice asked, rather shocked with his statement.

"Blood" John looked back down at his clothes; torn and covered in drying blood yet non of him was wet or bleeding. Something must be stopping it.

The voice chuckled "You're good" he could here the pleasure in his voice and pictured Moran smirking into the light, "Sherlock would be proud"

The video was sent and received mere minutes of John's consciousness. Sherlock was sat on the couch in Molly's house with her cat as she sniffed the air, the scent of cooking food simmering through the house from the kitchen.

"Text" Molly shouted, Sherlock got up and strolled into the warm kitchen, abandoning the cat and the 'dull' morning talk show on the silver flat screen.

He took his phone from Molly's out stretched hand and she carried on slowly stirring the sauce that was steaming in the pan.

"Mycroft?" She asked before tasting the red chilly sauce, smiling with pride and gesturing to Sherlock for a taste.

"Unknown" He said back in no more than a whisper.

He clicked the attached file expecting an ad or a late in-coming video from Molly to see a dark blank screen, then a shaky movement of someone turning the camera-phone on them.

The smirking face of Sebastian Moran.

It was 15 seconds into the video when Moran turned the camera to a view of the inside of 221B, John's chair facing Sherlock's chair. A pang of guilt rose up when he saw that John had kept the chair in the flat. It was taken away just as quickly as it had come; replaced by pure pain.  
John was being held up by two men in masks who where going a pretty bad job of lifting him up. his knees brushing the floor, his head hanging down onto his chest there was blood and bruises covering his face. He wouldn't have known it to be John if he hadn't shown him the surroundings.  
His hair gave him away to. Not a speck of blood had reached his hair suggesting the blood was from further down on the body than the face.

Sherlock couldn't watch anymore of the video. His hands where shaking, moving the phone and his vision was beginning to blur from tears and his knees where like jelly under him.

_Sentiment._


	12. Sherlock's plea

Maybe Sherlock was really alive… John had been listening to Moran for way too long. He'd addressed Sherlock in many different names; "Holmes" "Sherlock" "Baby" " Little darling" and now it was "boyfriend".

John was trying so very hard to keep his eyes open. yelling inside his own head at himself every time he blinked for too long.

The longer he kept awake the longer he would be stalling Moran, that was if he could actually talk back to him.

"I've seen him Watson. Incidentally your boyfriend was the one how picked you up from his brother's house. I'm not stupid"

"Mycr- no that was… that was" John's eyes where drooping with every word, making him slur his words as he spoke.

Moran stood in front of him. Blocking the light from his eyes and lifted John's face holding it up by one hand on his chin and squeezing his cheeks.

"Sherlock picked you up in that fancy black car" He stated simple. Moran froze for a minute as he watched John's reaction "You really didn't know did you"

John shook his head slowly, Moran's hand still clasping his face "I- he never" John's thoughts turned back to the fall forcing his eyes open wide so he couldn't see the image of his dead best friend. He would play along. The shock, the truth that Sherlock was alive then maybe he'll have proof or laugh in his face then he'll wake up in a cold sweat on the floor of his room.

Or maybe he won't.

Sherlock called Mycroft.

He couldn't watch the rest of the video. He knew what was coming up in the 10 minute long episode of "Beating up John". After Mycroft didn't answer he sent him the video.

Molly took him to the couch where he buried his face in his hands muttering various curses to himself "I got too close. I made him venerable. I'm so stupid. I shouldn't have-" Then there was a call back.

"Sherlock" Mycroft's strong and obviously confused voice sprang from the phone.

"My- I please find him" Sherlock pleaded to his brother. After words of assurance Mycroft hung up with the promise that the best in his control where on the job.

Shaking Sherlock told Molly Moran had John. Leaving Mycroft and his men to do the work made Sherlock feel stripped of power, stripped to the bone. He had to save John and the biggest clue of all was saved on his phone.

John was awoken by Moran's phone ringing. After a hushed, fast passing of words Moran hung up and stooped to John's level and smiled, "Seems like your boyfriend's not so tough after all" He said before turning off the light and making a quick exist into the darkness.


	13. Back to the Hospital

**shitty little chapter, will update again in a few minutes. will get better and more emotional/action-y promise :3**

* * *

Men crashed the into John's life a while after Moran's disappears, but he wasn't awake for that but.

He woke 2 weeks later after many visits from Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and Sherlock. Harry never visited.

"It's all my fault" Sherlock whispered to himself as he sat, lent towards John in the dark private hospital room.,

He'd not slept since he received the video and wouldn't until John woke up. But he couldn't be there when he was. The guilt of knowing he would have to leave or hide when he woke up and hear John's panicked yells about Moran.

Mycroft stood at the door looking in his brother, John made Sherlock better. Made him feel, and even though he would never admit it. He wanted Sherlock to have a normal life.

He couldn't see Sherlock's face but his hands where up on the bed, on top of John's hand. He hung his head and lifted it slightly to talk to him, only to hang it back down when the realisation that John was in a coma.

When Mycroft entered the white, crystal clean room that was only lit by the various beeping machines around John's bed and a lamp on the table next to Sherlock.

He sat next to his brother, noticing the faint shaking of his body as Sherlock slid his hand away from john's and lent back to face his brother.

"I hate feelings" He said, the same words he had said to Mycroft at his father funeral. Just to give Mycroft a sense of his feelings seeing his only friend in a coma, beaten and bashed.

He stared glumly at the wheelchair that was behind Mycroft, level with his shoulder "You know John, he's a fighter"

Mycroft said before following Sherlock's gaze to the wheel chair "He'll be out of it before you know it" He added.

"That's what you said when-"

"I know…" Mycroft cut in apologetically.

Sherlock turned back t john. Tilting his head to the side so Mycroft wouldn't see the tears threatening to slid down his face.

"You'll be with him soon, Sherlock. I need you to be safe. I need you both to be safe, and if that means you waiting until we find Moran again then… I'll have to-"

"I know" Sherlock cut in, nodding knowingly "I know" his voice was threatening to crack so he sat in silence for a while. He'd spent so much time on that chair, in that room that he could name the people as they walked past, just by the sound of their foot steps on the glossy, hard flooring of the corridor outside, so he knew that Lestrade was coming down before he knocked on the door.

"Lestrade" He greeted him with a nod of acknowledgment, Mycroft stood and talked to him for a short while at the door then Mycroft left without another word and Lestrade took his seat.

He sat next to the consultant, tall with spiky grey/black hair and a tan he obviously got abroad that year yet he'd broken up with his wife and she had taken the kids, so who did he go with?

Sherlock noticed non of this when he looked a him, sympathetic looks where traded and nods of 'sorry' like john was already dead and not listening in to what Lestrade was saying about molly being a wreck or Mycroft getting onto the Moran case as they spoke.

Sherlock only left when the cleaner had yelled at him too and then he didn't fully leave the hospital. He went to the lab. He went around the outside, to the garden, to the café and finally the roof.


	14. Day Dreaming or Seeing Things?

John woke up later that night, nurse after nurse came in to check on his, to talk to him and tend to him.

Doctor's streamed in too, posh and obviously not form St Bart's, to talk to him and tend to him too.

Medicine, stronger this time, was pumped into his body, bandages tightly fastened in place, clothes changes and confidence smashing sponge baths became the norm between Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson's visits.

"Where's Mycroft" He would ask "Did they get Moran" "Is Sherlock alive?"

Molly ran out twice on him, in tears. The sheer guilt getting to much to bear when he asked about Sherlock, when he asked is demons tell the truth.

"Demons" were john's way of dealing with why people in the world would cut, kill, torture there way through the world. When he was five anyway.

"Ahh John, looking better today. Have you eaten?" Doctor Sam Martin smiled when he entered the room.

John nodded slightly with a smile making it's way up onto his features.

"Good, good." He nodded, taken the clip board from the front of his bed out and holding it close to his eyes. _Forgot his glasses, again._

_Sam smiled at John as he read the daily observations form various doctors and nurses had written on it over the 2 weeks john had been there and he 5 days he'd been awake._

"Looks good. We talked on Thursday about the credentials to leave, go home" He reminded him, after John's nods he continued "Well we're going to give you a few tests, legs, eyes, coordination, the usual… then… if all goes to plan, you can go home"  
_Home,_ means a whole new thing nowadays. He wondered if there where blood stains on the carpet when the doctor left, sending for another doctor to come for john to test him on his ability to be alive.

"he's coming home" Lestrade smiled to himself as he gave the news to Sherlock over the phone later that day. "Tomorrow" he added before Sherlock had time to ask when.

Greg hung up and pulled out of his driveway and headed to Scotland's yard while Sherlock walked up the St Bart's to test his strength in temptations.

He wore pale jeans and black leather jacket with hoodie under it for the hood.

He walked up the corridors, past John's room twice. Awake, Molly's there.

He sighed to himself. Now where else to go. The Neil came to mind. He headed up the stairs to his ward and found him taking to Mycroft on the phone. When the call had ended and the mention of Sherlock's presents as avoided, Neil gestured to the wheel chair and they went for a walk.

"Mycroft visited?" John asked in shock, with a hint of gratefulness. He smiled to himself as Molly told him the fist night john was here, Mycroft went all boss on the doctors, ordering better ones. "I need doctors that can spot the difference between the cranium and the clavicle" Molly quoted in a deeper, posher voice.

John chuckled only to curl up in protections of his aching ribs that came with the laugh.

"Sorry" she rushed, going to tap John's arm but taking it away just as fats in case she hurt him.

John shook him head, facing down to his ribs with a smile "It's okay. I- thanks" He smiled, to answer the confused frown on her face he added "Been a while".

The tests went fine, better still that John knew all the tests back to front and what was good and what was bad, by the end he knew he was eligible to go home but wasn't sure he could.

When he was talking to a male nurse about the wheel chair functions and question of were he could stay while he was in the chair (Flat stairs would be to high hurdles for him to jump) Molly assured the nurse he could stay with her just as a man pasted the door, he glanced into the room for a second as he pasted with a hoodie and a laughing man in a wheelchair. John swore he'd seen him before. Then the man going to the car came to mind, so did Moran's statements. Especially the "Your boyfriend was the one who picked you up from his brother's"

John was about to yell before he looked up and saw the questioning look on the nurse's and Molly's faces.

He apologised for day dreaming and agreed he would stay with Molly until he was rid of the chair, _thank god_


	15. Holmes Manor

The arrangement to live with Molly for a while was short lived; Mycroft had arranged John to stay with his parents until Moran was arrested or killed "We have to hope for the best" Mycroft had said when John asked about the 'killed' but of his statement.

He would have joked that Mycroft was taking his security to far if it wasn't for his mother entering the room which reminded John Mycroft had lost a brother not long ago.

Sherlock's mother was tall and thin, pale skinned with a round face. She was a motherly sort of women, with the knitted cardigan and curly hair.

She met John at the door of her large house, a fancy manor house with a gravel path leading up to it from the sliding gates at the edge of the front of the house.

_Sherlock __has__ had her eyes._

John found it hard to look into them.

The house was large in every aspect of the word, big rooms filled with books and chairs and portraits, a roaring fire in the main living room with 5 large dark leather chairs. Comfy enough to look at but John was stuck in the wheel chair.

Despite the events leading up to John's moving in she was a cheery women who joked about Mycroft and his childhood. They were all careful not to mention Sherlock. Mrs Holmes's brother Ronald ,tall and thin like her but muscly and his hair was light and his face was scarred a strong Irish accent lisped over his London accent, probably from service there in the navy, had a more confident attitude towards the subject "_Always _going on about science… when it wasn't Mycroft it was Sherlock. When it wasn't science it was remarks on my shoes or my hair. Never could catch what he said. Funny accent" He added on John's slight frown.

The Holmes Manor was filled with libraries and private studies, John fell into the routine of going into the small library to the left of the living room. It was round and had a circular desk in the centre, the chairs where removed for John's chair, that held reading lamps note pads, pens and, now, John's laptop.

A week into his stay at Holmes Manor an he had learnt about Mycroft's time around the house, father-Mycroft stories but he never heard much of Sherlock so he decided to ask.

"So, Sherlock, was he as annoying a child as he is adult?"

John realised his mistake with 'is' but decided not to correct himself.

Mrs Holmes smiled to herself, placing her tea on the mahogany table in front of her, nodding, "Always outside as a kid. Running me and Remus ragged. Asking questions about mud and trees where other children in his school where asking about food and people. He always loved learning new things. Mycroft taught him how to deduce." At that she stopped smiling and picked her tea back up. Memories of Sherlock as a bruised-knee snot-nose kid must have that effect on her now and again.

John tried to imagine Sherlock, shorts and t-shirt pale and tall with short stubborn curly hair that his father had tried to make the maid brush r cu out.

Now he thought of it he hadn't seen any child pictures in the house of portraits, nor of his father. So he went in his chair to look after bidding his best friend's mother a nod of a goodbye.

Mycroft told Sherlock where john was staying two days after he had gone, he wasn't happy bout it but at least Sherlock had a reason not to go to his mother's house. And he still could go to Molly's.

A week into the arrangement, a week of Sherlock's research and nightmares of John alone with Moran. Slowly Moran turned into Moriarty and john turned into his friend and it was Sherlock in the chair, pleading for his life.

He woke with a start and as he phone went off, catching his breathe and wiping cold sweat from his forehead, he answered only to have a deadline.

"Stay away from the hospital, mummy's and mine" Mycroft had warned but listening was never Sherlock's best feature, so when john started his physical therapy sessions at St Barts he picked up another outfit far from what he would usually wear (ripped dark jeans, a cap that shielded most of his eyes/forehead, and a dark hoodie) and went to the hospital with Neil's intern (Amanda Biggs a small red0headed lady that wore converse like it was essential).

John was taken to St Bart's in a silver small car with Ronald. "So when the ship sank Mary was still clutching onto her brother's friend's finacee and cook was next to her…. Clutching a cabbage!" at the not-so-obvious punch line John spread a smile but didn't look Ronald.

"Freaked out?" He asked, settling down from his silent giggles, John nodded but couldn't speak, freaking out was an understatement, john's head buzzed and bubbled, staying with Sherlock's family made him feel strangely at home but a guilt crept in every night as he slept. And today was the day that it just wouldn't leave him. In the car with Sherlock's uncle. They didn't look alike but he talked just as fast and, if he was listening, just as weird topics too.

The session went on with fake smiles nods and much bending of his legs and stretching of his side, the poice came in to the session to get a statement (Mycroft hadn't let them bear John in Bart's and Holmes Manor was as private as they come)

"Moran was waiting for you." The tanned, muscular and taller of the men went over as he hovered his pen over an empty notepad.

"Yes. On the chair."

"Describe the chair"

"This is so pathetic!" Ronald cut in with an annoying yell, "Describe the chair?! What about Seb? You have PICTURES from the cameras Sherlock installed after Moriarty came to his flat! You have eye witness accounts of him leaving the street and yet you are not in office checking every CCTV camera in England. Mycroft did that bit, Mycroft took samples of the blood, Mycroft traced where you can received the gun John described while he was hospitalised yet you haven't found him! OUT!" He finished off by shooing the cops out of the room and slamming the door, "Sorry for that I just-"

"It's okay. I get it" John got it. Ronald and Mycroft alike couldn't save Sherlock, they couldn't look after him or arrest a murder, they would mourn and moan but that was it. John got it but he wasn't happy about it. As the thoughts filled his mind a man caught his eye, he was sitting with a red0headed women who was clasping her nee to her chest, he was talking to a nurse but instead of listening he was looking at john. Not with anger for Ronald yelling in the session, but in pure sorrow. Or was it guilt?


	16. Self-Confessions and Therapy Sessions

John went to the café after the session after Ronald called Holmes Manor to delay the call "You have to give me that number" John chuckled

"Mycroft kidnaps you often?" Ronald asked picking up the crappy laminated menu from the centre of the table.

John laughed "He didn't even tell me he was Sherlock's brother, just said 'Enemy' "

"Yeah he usual describes their relationship as 'Enemy' and 'arc enemies'"

John nodded with a smile in agreement.

"They don't talk about him much, do they?"

Ronald instantly shook his head, face down to the table, "fear of hurting dear sister" he smiled slightly, looking back up at John and shrugged, "we hardly saw him once he moved out. Always at crime scenes or running after criminals. Mycroft gets all the limelight in our family, but Sherlock's the real genius"

John smiled at his comments but couldn't and wouldn't add in anything. Ronald knew him more than John did.

"So what was he like with you?"

"With me? Detective-ish" Ronald laughed lightly at John's description, "He kill you for using that word."

John smiled in agreement and their convocation spread from there until he asked about john saving him.

Instead of the pictures of john shooting the cab-driver through the chest he though of Sherlock falling, failing at saving him.

He closed his eyes for a while until Ronald caught up with what h must be thinking, "No I, I didn't mean the- God, no. I meant… Mycroft told me… You shot that guy when you first met"

"Yeah" He replied, his voice shrunken to a faint whisper. "I erm… yeah I did."

He looked up at Ronald, Pity filled his face but not in a way that made john feel like the victim. Feel like a child.

"He finally met his match with you, didn't he" Ronald smiled, breaking the silence.

"Yeah I guess he did. Hard to keep up with though." He smiled, the pictures of Sherlock running ahead of John on the rooms in the legendary race for the cabby-killer.

"I didn't mean detective match" Ronald slipped in.

Lovers?

"Oh no… I erm…" John wanted to say 'We weren't involved like that', 'I'm not gay (Not so sure about him though)' but he couldn't. The words failed him and he didn't care.

"Sorry you weren't together? But I thought… sorry"

"No it's fine, we erm. No we weren't but I… never mind" Stopped himself from saying 'I wanted to. I loved him. I love him'

Sherlock sat with his back to John's back and listened to every stutter, mistake and shyness in John's voice when Ronald mentioned them two in a relationship.

His head screamed to turn around and cry and to shout and his muscles ached to move into his direction, to move into him. For his lips on John's and his hands in his hair. But Sherlock shook it off, caring is not an advantage. But that doesn't stop him from loving.


	17. Photo Album

John left the session at half 3, the car was already waiting for them both. The doctor had given John a timetable; physical therapy at home, walking about and moving from the chair to crutches to a walking stick to normal waking.

It took a few weeks of wok with Ronald to get the crutch stage and it felt, to John, as though he would stay stuck on the walking stick stage so he didn't try as hard as he could.

They visited the hospital for occasional check up's.

In between reading and hobbling down the large hall ways at Holmes Manor. Ronald had told him where Sherlock had slept when he had lived there but he had never gone up until the first month of his stay was almost up and a check up was cancelled due to Ronald having a meeting with Mycroft.

Sherlock's room was on the first floor. Bigger than John's room that was on the ground floor. It was still and quiet and made John feel uncomfortable but he didn't leave, he scanned the room carefully; notes pinned to the wall, a periodic table poster like the one back in the flat, although now it was rolled up in a cabinet.

The room held a single bed, a dark wood bed-side table, a matching wardrobe, open with only a few items of clothing in it, a messy stack of books on the floor by his bed and a table near the window with a chair. John went over to it and sat down, the table had notes and an open book with additional writing in Sherlock's curled scrawl.

John wondered if how old Sherlock was when he actually started with his detective work and figured it would have been early; with Mycroft giving his books and lessons.

On the table was a small violin case, dusty and velvet. John slid it over the table to him and opened it.

The red wood of the violin was clean and clear but wasn't shiny like it would have been when he owned it. It was the right size for a younger, smaller Sherlock. John found himself picturing Sherlock, small and skinny, with a mass of curls on his head, tipping over the left side of his face as he played the violin in the middle of the night. But he could because the rest of his family where on different floors and the maids would have to put up with it.

John chuckled to himself and put the case back, closing the lid until it clicked back in place and slid it back to it's rightful place.

One book in particular caught his eye. It looked new but was covered with other old, worn books Sherlock probably read every night. John took it from the pile by his bed and sat on the edge of the bed; it was a photo album. Thick and heavy but hardly opened.

The front of the album had 'Sherlock and Mycroft' in curly lettering that was only a few shades of the rest of the black cover.

John hesitated before opening with a weird feeling that his images of a young, happy Sherlock would be destroyed but he opened it with hope that the images would come to life and that would be how john remembered Sherlock.

The first photo was a school picture, Mycroft was chubby, about 16 and tall with light brown hair, Sherlock sat to his right with his dark curls, his hair shorter than it had been when he was with John. Their uniform was mostly hidden by the cut of the picture but Sherlock had a slight half smile on him where Mycroft was serious and straight faced yet the light hit his eyes in a way that made it look like he was smiling.

The next photo was an older version of the first, this time the smile had gone from Sherlock but his eyes lit up as Mycroft's did on the first.

John carried on flipping through the album, 'Sherlock's first violin lesson', 'Mycroft at Mrs Madres garden party', 'on holiday', 'family picture' and lots more. Then there was a couple where Sherlock was about the age he was before he fell.

In a suit at the front of a church with Mycroft and 5 other men in matching tux's; Mycroft stood out as he was in the middle with a red flower pinned to his chest where everyone else had red shirts. They where all smiling and laughing. Even Sherlock.

Then again on the next photo, him and his mother holding up champagne, Sherlock wasn't looking directly at the camera this time but his face was showing to the side, looking at a younger, smiling Mrs Holmes. He was laughing in this one.

Sherlock often wondered what would have happened if he had rally died. Would Moran look for John and finish off the job? Would Mycroft have cleared his name? Would John still live at 221 B? Would Molly break down? Leave St Bart's?

These where the questions he had never actually thought about asking but never wanted to figure out for himself either.

So when Moran had John he thought he would finish him off. When John moved in with his mother and uncle he thought John would get Mycroft to do something about the fact people still believed in Richard Brook. He often thought that if he had died, would it change his mother's opinion? Would she know Sherlock was real? That Brook was a big lie?

Sherlock didn't care for emotions but lately they have been seeping their way into his life without invite, without permission and it was starting to hurt. He wanted to go home, to Baker Street, to see John making tea and moaning about the eyeballs in the fridge. But they were long gone, so was he.

So instead he went to Baker Street and entered the twilight-dark room, bending under the police tape. The once so tidy living room was now smashed up place, blood stained the carpet, the table had been flipped over, the camera Moran had used to film his message to Sherlock was smashed to pieces on the floor right after he had sent the video and muddled into the wreck to look as if it was John's and had been on the table.

He sat in silence on John's chair and closed his eyes, abandoning thoughts of Moran and played out the way he would tell john he was alive, that he was okay and that he would look after him and take punishment as it came. Live with the 'You faked your death' come backs from him when john did something wrong and the 'I nearly died' comments when Sherlock told john he had Moran under control.

Moran, the only obstacle to Sherlock's life. And he was not going to sit down and take it.


	18. Ronald's words of wisdom

Sherlock called Lestrade that night; to Lestrade's annoyance ("I'm asleep, leave me alone", "Well you're awake now!")

He called Mycroft, he called security guards, teams of people with power and then Ronald.

"How is he doing?" was Sherlock's first question after greetings and yawns.

"Better. He's walking now. With a walking stick"

"That's the Doctor Watson I know." Sherlock said back, smiling to himself.

"Not long ago you didn't know him at all" Ronald pointed out.

"Isn't the point. Has he been okay though?"

"Yeah, Yeah. I mean apart from the server injuries he gained because of a psychotic murder you attracted… then fine"

Sherlock's stomached turned with memories and he signed into the phone; "You know what I meant." He answered after a few moments silence.

"Yeah, I do" Ronald said back, of course he understood. He was the king of losing people.

Sherlock took Ronald out of his mind in fear he would start to believe he has lost John.

"What's he doing. I think he's in your room. I'll have a look in a minute, are you doing okay?"

Sherlock could picture Ronald's all knowing face when he aske the question and Sherlock sighed again. "I'm fine… just, frustrated" He figured it was a good word to use, he was. Moran. He had to find Moran and get rid of him, only then will it be okay for Sherlock to… live.

"He saw you at the session you know. He didn't mention it but I could tell… The ghost from his past popping it like that. You're going to be the death of him, Sherlock."

"You couldn't be more right."

Sherlock stated and let the silence gobble them up, wondering how long more he could wait for Mycroft to get back to him, if he could resist the temptation of going now and getting everyone at the same time to the house and plan to get Moran in a safe yet ordinary conditions. For Sherlock to look vulnerable and for Moran to take the shot and the police to tae him away. It was handcuff's or a body bag.

Sherlock never hoped more for a body bag to be needed in his whole life.

Ronald cut the silence with a "I'll leave you to your thoughts. I'll check up on John. Text you later"

And Sherlock had nothing to do but to pace the room to kill the long, stretched hours between him and Moran.

John had fallen asleep at Sherlock's desk, it wasn't that he was to tired to move, it was a case of being to comfortable in the Sherlock surroundings that where calming him from the moment he had sat down.

Ronald looked in at him from the door way, John's body curved forward, his head on his folded arms on the desk.

He smiled slightly, thinking of Sherlock when he had homework when he was younger and fell asleep in the same position. John Watson was defiantly Sherlock's better half, better as in John made Sherlock a better person.

If it had been anyone else in Sherlock's life… he wouldn't be following him, checking up on him. He would be working to figure out and solve the problem.

Ronald patted John's shoulder, shaking him out of the land of nod.

Rubbing his eyes and squinting through the darkened room to see Ronald, John rose out of the chair.

"Thought I'd find you here" Ronald stated gently.

"Hey, I erm… sorry I was just-"

"It's fine. It's okay. How you doing?"

"Fine, good. Yeah."

John shifted his weight from his right leg to his left and back, hand on the chair back for support.

"Downstairs?"

John nodded and went for his walking stick that was leaning on the desk to left.

"No, no, no" Ronald said, taking hold of John's wrist, "let's go"

John frowned slightly, "I need-"

"You want. You do not need. A birdy told me you used to have a psychosomatic limp."

Folding his arms and shifting his weight to match John.

"Yeah, I did… Shot in the shoulder" He explained with a shrug.

"What happened to the limp?" Ronald had to force the smile from curving spreading ear to ear.

"I erm, ran to a, … Sherlock was in trouble." He finished quickly.

"So I heard. What if you where in trouble. You would run and fail now… so practice. You never know what comes along in life these days" He smiled, hinting without john realising.

Ronald smiled and John's frown and ushered him out of the room into the long, brightly lit corridor.


	19. Ronald's words of wisdom Part 2

**I'm going to drop the Sherlock POV John POV for a bit because I know that Sherlock and Mycroft will have big words and arguments and I'm in no way clever so here's some John Pride and fluffy-ness, Enjoy :3**

John walked to the top of the stairs with Ronald, faced with the 'mountain' John saw the stirs to be, Ronald scooped him up into his arms and carried him downstairs with ease.

He walked to the living room from the stairs and slumped into the nearest chair in the circle of chairs in front of the fire.

When Ronald sat down in front of him he was smiling at him, a wide smile that reminded him of his sister and he smiled back.

"Well done Johno!"

John smiled but didn't know what to say, 'Thank you' it sounded ridiculous, he'd been the one that walked again.

He lent back in the soft cushioned chair, they really where as comfy to sit in as they were to look at.

He faced the fire, letting the heat that was radiating from the dancing flames seep into his skin and let the silence hug them both for a while even though they wanted to talk, to ask questions, to laugh to calm down and laugh again. Because that's what all John had wanted in a long time. Just that he wanted it with Sherlock rather than the man's uncle so they let the silence gobble them up for a short while longer.

"He'd be proud" Ronald said quietly.

John smiled slightly and shook his head, "he's probably have took my stick away the day I got it and ran off with it"

Ronald chuckled at that, he knew he would have if circumstances where different. Ronald ignored the voice that told him to tell John the truth, not long now.

"Yeah, he probably would have. You know him very well."

"Better than most, apparently." John added, of course his mother knew him better than John did, even his father did.

"That's very true. He always kept himself to himself at home. Especially when his dad… Mycroft was worse though."

John would have commented but he hadn't established a line between humour with Ronald yet and wondered if he ever would.

"Moran."

At Ronald's words John's head snapped upwards to face him again.

"You researched him; before he… visited you, I mean… why?"

"I erm… stupid really.." John trailed off, telling an almost friend that he heard Sherlock's voice tell him he'll sort out Moran while he was unconscious was stupid and delusional. But he did anyway.

When he told him everything he had heard Ronald let out a long sigh and ran his finger's through his hair. John could have swore he heard him say "That stupid bastard" but in fear that the comment was about him, he ignored it.

"Mycroft give me his file" He added to finish.

"Yeah, it was on the table. You where on the phone to your sister when you walked in?"

"Yeah… how… phone?" He answered his own question within seconds of asking it, he looked at Ronald expecting a 'how stupid can you be?' face looming over at him only to find a 'Holy shit' realisation face that was to much like Sherlock's for comfort.

"What?" John blurted out, "What is it?"

Ronald stood up and let out a line of 'the phone!' statements before running over the other side of the living room to one of the libraries and coming back out with a phone in his hand.

"The phone!" he half yelled, like that explained anything to John.

"The call wasn't your sister!"

"WHAT?!" John said louder than he had anticipated.

"It couldn't have been. Mycroft put up cameras in areas known to you, places you might go, pubs, restaurants, the hospital… houses. We checked the that day and it didn't show Harriet going home drunk… she was ether in or out all night. Mycroft thought the security had brought up the wrong tape, but I don't think they did."

"So you're saying that the call wasn't from Harry?"

"Exactly, I think it was a distraction"

"From what?"

"Anything… noise, voices, people. You didn't look around the flat or the stairs did you?"  
"I… no I think so"

"Why?"

"…Harry"

Ronald was leaning forward, close to John now. His face reflected the connecting thoughts in their heads, he was clutching his phone. "I need to make a call" and he was up and out of the room before John could move his lips in any way.

He sat in the chair in Holmes Manor and waited for Ronald to come back, it was a while… trying to convince Mycroft Holmes he was wrong would take years of practice, that's why John had never tried with either Holmes's now he thought about it.

Ronald came back with a smile on his face, "I was right… Mycroft's on to it. Moran will be gone within the month"  
John felt like a weight that he hadn't notice before, was being lifted from his shoulder's at Ronald's words, "but he's going to need your cooperation."

He added in a quieter voice.


	20. John's Follower

John was sent to the hospital; apparently John's cooperation was getting out of the house and he didn't have anything to do and if he wanted to be deemed helpful, he couldn't be hobbling about the place wit a walking stick because of his ribs and thigh.

The car rolled outside the front of St Bart's; John tried his best not to look up to the roof but ending up staring at it for a while before he entered the building anyway.

He shook the urge to stay there of and he went into the hospital, waddling to his left with a clear notification that the silent passenger from the car had got out when he was through the door and tried to blend in with the crowd.

_Pale jacket, dark jeans, short dark hair, cap._ He noted for further reference as he went to the reception desk to check in.

The women at the desk was over his keyboard, ignoring the ringing phone to her right and didn't look up until the second cough of attention from John.

He was sent to wait for his doctor's session because it didn't start for another 15 minutes so he headed to the café of the hospital for a coffee.

Walking down the bright corridors, his sick loud on the glossy floor, his shoes squeaked occasionally when he missed a step or when to fast for himself.

As he was walking and the drifting couple of visitors drifted away from the route he was taking to the café, he could hear shoes behind him. One pair now so he could here each step in time to his own. He had to wait for him and the man behind to go past a window for John to sneak a look at him.

Cap, dark jeans, light jacket. Busted, he thought with a smile. They where alone on the corridor now as they turned left into a long corridor lined with turns out to the reception, gardens and up to the main waiting room of A and E, John saw an empty corridor, it was cut off short for a door at the end that was either a store cupboard or a cleaners closet, he took the turning and waited for the man to pass as he carried on down the main corridor, John breathed in deep and placed his walking stick on the ground to minimise noise; as the man passed, not looking at the corridor where John was, John ran at him. He was caught of guard and John pushed him up against the wall on the opposite side to where he had ben waiting, gripping the man's jacket collar. The man's skinny limbs gave in easily to John's trained muscle.

The man struggled and hung his head forward, muffled moans of annoyance where clearly British but weren't loud enough for John to hear the words.

"Why are you following me?" John hissed, his mouth close to the man's face which was mainly hidden by hair and shadow, his cap hung down near John's nose, irritating him.

The man tried to push John off him but John gripped tight of his collar, his elbows pinning the man's shoulder's down further, John's knees dug into the man's legs and thigh making him grunt under the force f the angry army doctor.

"Tell me. Why are you following me? What do you want?" He shook the man at his collar, jolting his head further forward.

"No. Stop! Gerdoff!" was all the man would say, over and over. No screams, no yells for help which assured John the man was guilty. He was following him, he did want something. Weather or not he was working for Mycroft was still undecided.

"What do you want!" John's voice was loud and cracking now.

He pushed the man further into the wall as he struggled up the pressure.

John had a very annoying sensation. Probably because the man's face was covered by his cap so he quickly moved his right arm up to the hat and ripped it off. By the sound of the man's loud yell he pulled out some hair to.

John froze, his body suddenly numb and his legs threatening to fold under him, he felt as though the man had winded him so when he spoke it was in a voice that didn't feel like his, a child-like whisper.

"Sherlock?"


	21. Anger or Guilt?

Sherlock tried to catch his breathe, he leant back on the wall John had been previously pushing him up against but now John's arms where at his sides, the cap and hair half way down the corridor from them.

A silence neither of them needed or wanted hung over them like a bad smell. John couldn't talk and Sherlock didn't talk.

He truly didn't know what he should say. 'Sorry', 'John', 'I'm alive', 'sorry' it all looped back to that moment and Sherlock hadn't really got his head around it yet.

The two men stared at each other for what felt like hours but was most likely mere seconds.

"Sherlock?" John repeated, louder this time as he found his voice that had voluntarily left his mind when John needed it the most.

John wanted to shout at Sherlock, he wanted to hit him until he bled out of his 'perfect' cheekbones and fell to the floor like John's legs was threatening to get him to do.

He wanted to shout so much, but he couldn't. Because with the anger came relief like a tide upon seeing Sherlock's face looking back at him with his very alive eyes. The tide lapped over him so suddenly when he pulled off the cap that he felt dizzy and sick but remained staring back at the taller man, the tide had winded him and when it pulled back it left John with happiness that didn't seem to know what to do with itself, with the relief came love.

He was okay.

"You bastard." Was all he could muster out of the tornado of emotion

"John I can-"

"I know you can. You will but someone's coming."

John shot his eyes to his left where a limping, old man was coming their way.

Sherlock shrugged but John was already picking up the cap from the floor, dusting it off and discarding the hair clump onto the floor with an apologetic look and pushing it gently onto Sherlock's head.

They hurried, in silence to the cupboard along the corridor and shut the door tightly behind them.

The cupboard was small and held a hoover, some shelves with multiple cleaning products on, a small window covered by Sherlock with the pure white blind.

The room was big enough for the to stand arm length apart but instead John felt a pull to Sherlock, who was taking the cap back off and smoothing his short dark curls out with his hand.

"What are you doing?- I don't even know what I… I wasn't trained for this" John sighed in frustration and lent on the wall behind him.

"I am sorry John but I had to it was unavoidable"

"You better have a good excuse for leaving me the way you did" John let out, the anger building back over the tide like the foam in the water trying to get to the air.

"I do, I really do but we can't stay here, we need to go to Mycroft's I need to be there I told them all to meet and they'll leave if I'm not there."

"Okay" John let out gently stepping forward and laying a hand on the taller mans shoulder, "…Just making sure."

He explained when the detective looked at John with a questioning brow.

"Oh… Okay I thought, why aren't you mad?"

"Oh I _am_" John smiled sliding his hand off from his friends shoulder, "I am, you made me watch you die, Sherlock. I went to a funeral and spoke about you, I still have nightmares." He added in a whisper as if he wanted Sherlock to know, to hurt him, but h was to ashamed to say it out loud… It worked though. Sherlock had been assured that john would be and was okay, he was happy and had a girl but know images of john waking with a start in a cold sweat, just like Sherlock had done, filled his mind like a computer virus and made him feel dizzy.

"I'm sorry John. It's just that-"

Sherlock froze and so did John. Their trained senses going crazy as two pairs of foot steps echoed through the corridor to them, Sherlock nodded permission for john to go up to the door and listen for voices, which he did and made sure he didn't black the dim light form the cracks of the cupboard on Sherlock gesture.

"He was here, I know it." An angry voice, hushed and panicked reached John.

"I don't think he did, sir. The soldier was seen but the detective was restricted by his brother"

"And why would he listen to him" the other voice was growing angrier and more familiar the closer it came.

"I want him dead" The angry voice stated.

The other voice was stretched and worried, sounded scared to John.

"But sir they could be of use-"

"Only in death my dear friend, only in death."

And the voices and steps faded into silence, when john turned to see Sherlock he was tense and had his eyes fixed on the door in pure anger and John knew who it had been; Moran.

"Moran had a friend," John whispered, not sure if it was safe yet.

_"Not for long_" Sherlock growled.

John frowned at his friend, Sherlock had been angry around john before, but not like this. He wondered what had happened while he was gone and knew he would get an answer, Sherlock liked to boast and explain. It was one of the things he had missed.

They left the cupboard minutes later and headed out the front door in a hurry, john had forgotten about his limp, and his walking stick, which he had seemed to have abandoned in the hospital, much to Sherlock's delight.


	22. A meeting at Mycroft's

Sherlock was on and off the phone in the short time from the cupboard to the front door of the busy hospital, a shiny silver car was pulling up outside and Sherlock didn't hesitated before getting in and neither did john, the car ride was _smooth, john's head was fuzzy and he still didn't know how to react to Sherlock._

_He's alive._

_He's okay._

He wanted to ask him how the hell he jumped and survived.

What he'd been doing after the fall and if all was well now, but by the shaking of Sherlock's leg that came along with a traffic light, he thought not.

"Hurry up!" Sherlock moaned to the silent driver.

John looked at Sherlock for a long time, he had scars dotted about his face, _fighting._ He had shadows under his eyes, _lack of sleep_. His hair was fluffy and short like it had been cut and washed not long ago but bits of it stuck up, _cut it himself._

John tried to piece together where he'd been staying but came out with nothing, Sherlock looked back out of the car with a shaking head when they finally got moving again, he looked at john like he had never gone, like everything was fine, and as much john wanted it to be fine and happy, it wasn't and he knew it. "Where are we going?" John asked after looking out the window, they weren't going to the flat or to the Yard so he'd taken to ask; 'Mycroft's." Sherlock answered back without looking at the confused man, "Okay… okay" John nodded to himself, he will save the questions for later.

Something was bothering the detective and then he remembered how he'd been upon hearing Moran.

Anger, pure anger that John had seen in many people, never Sherlock.

Sherlock got frustrated hen something went wrong, angry when john hid his cigarettes and Sherlock himself couldn't find them, angry when Mrs Hudson was hurt.

_Hurt_… was Sherlock angry because of what Moran did to John.

How could he- "You visited me in the hospital" John realised out loud, not looking to Sherlock until he didn't get an answer. Turning his head to the left to look at a numb struck Sherlock, he'd heard him.

"Didn't you?" he asked, louder than he intended.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and sighed, "yes" he said, barely a whisper.

"You… lead me to Moran."

Sherlock only nodded this time, slow but looking at john this time.

"He only… he told me himself that he only came because I was… he thought I knew about him. Knew who he was and thought I was working with Mycroft to get him." John's voice was cracking now, Sherlock wasn't angry at Moran, he was angry with himself.

"I only wanted you to know- I never thought he would-" Sherlock's voice was cracking now, he looked away so john wouldn't see the tiny water build up in is eyes, "I owe you a thousand apologies, John. I know that and I will make it up to you."

"You don't have-"

"I do I will make it up to you, when this is all over. I promise. Right now…" he nodded out of the window, the car was rolling up a gravel path that lead to a tall building, old-fashioned and dark with no light coming from the house, only from the front door where a tall man waited, round and suited in a three piece suit and waved a hand in the air once before making its way to the car …"we have work to do" Sherlock finished. John smiled and followed Sherlock out of his side of the car so john wouldn't hit the obviously expensive car that they had parked up next to and out to see Mycroft.

Mycroft's house was big, very big. John counted five doors on what Mycroft's called "The ground floor of five" so John figured that if the rooms where all the same size and shape, that's 25 rooms, give or take a few for size and stairs.

Mycroft lead Sherlock and john to a big room at the end of the dimly lit corridor which was filled with a large walnut table that held 13 chairs and 10 people, Mycroft went to the chair at the front of the table, the furthest from the door while Sherlock lead John to the seats left over in between two men in suits, one was old grey, one was young and freckled.

Mycroft greeted the table as a while, like they all knew one another but there was a distance in the room that showed no one knew one another, from someone else's view Sherlock was the only one who knew Mycroft.

John had no idea why they where there, up until Mycroft's introduction.

"You've all been called here in regards to a man, Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock felt John tense up at the name and tried to remain calm.

"You all are experts in one field or another and my brother," he gestured with his hand and head to Sherlock, "has insisted upon bringing you all together, weather or not you want to help him to irrelevant, George." He added upon the old man on John's left when he let out a sig when Sherlock's involvement of their situation was announced.

John looked around the table, no one seemed all that thrilled on the situation but the closest to Mycroft, a women with long ginger hair who frequently smiled in Sherlock's direction, and a round young man with wispy brown hair who rolled his eyes at George's sigh.

John turned to Sherlock who shrugged and looked to Mycroft before slowly standing where he sat, "Brother." They nodded at each other and Sherlock gestured to John who sat frowning at his friend.

"May we be dismissed?"

John didn't here Sherlock in his words, he heard a child.

He remembered the pictures of younger Sherlock and smiled to himself.

"You may" Mycroft nodded.

The words where robotic as usual between the brothers but it felt like a colder ice had seeped through to the brothers that made John think about Sherlock's absence, _he hadn't stayed here then._


	23. Sleeping with Sherlock (no slash)

John let himself be steered by Sherlock, only know did John feel the tiredness in his body, out of the meeting room and he clambered up a set of stairs behind him to a room furthest from the landing, "My room" Sherlock nodded to it, "well a guest room I claimed" he smiled to himself before pushing the stiff door open into the pitch black room.

Sherlock flicked the switch and gestured to John to enter before he closed the door.

The room was big, probably bigger than the meeting room, it would have been more obvious what size it was if it wasn't so messy, the bed was neat and tidy like the one back and Holmes manor, the floor was a glossy light wood and nothing was on it but the shelves that lined the walls were filled with lines and stacks of books old and new alike, read and un read,

The books that lined these walls weren't like the ones in Holmes manor, they where clean and ordered which made John think how old he was when he was last there, or last at his childhood bedroom in Holmes Manor. Sherlock followed John's line of view and smiled, "Books are the greatest weapon you could have…" smiling in memory of when his dad told him that, he couldn't have been a day older than 4.

"You have loads at home too," John stated, standing near the closed door while Sherlock's eyes skimmed the name son the cracked spines of the books.

"I read them, save the important information so I don't need to read them again" Sherlock explained.

John smiled to himself, finally looking at the tall detective, the cap was off, probably left in the car, his fringe flopped over his forehead and wasn't as short as John had thought, but defiantly shorter… "You're staring" Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side to make sure where John was looking at.

John shook his head, dazed, "Sorry I just… I don't really know how to react to… this" he gestured to Sherlock with both hands, looking down for his walking stick that he realised had gone, expecting a loud clatter on the floor as it fell.

"It's back at the hospital" Sherlock answered John's silent question with a wide smile on his face.

John looked up at Sherlock, smiling at his smile and pure gratefulness filled him up to the brim, he would save the punch for later and blame the fall for it, he would make him tidy up the flat, he'd yell at him and everything would be okay… then he remembered the grave stone.

"Who did we bury?" John burst out.

"Well Molly gave me a donated body to bury." Sherlock stated simply

"I should have know Molly was in on it too… she would have had to do your death certificate" John said it all while nodding to himself, it was lowly bringing itself together but he still had so many more questions that wanted to burst at Sherlock but he kept them close, remembering them…. Saving them.

Sherlock smiled to himself before looking back at John with a look of guilt changing the very being of his person, he looked like he hadn't slept in days… well it was Sherlock so it was likely that he hadn't slept for days.

They sat together on Sherlock's bed in silence, the sound of Sherlock's breathing comforted John as he tried his best to keep his eyelids from falling shut.

"You're tired" Sherlock said without looking at John.

"Sleep… according to a little birdy the last time you slept was in my bedroom at Holmes Manor"

John smiled, spinning his head to look at the detective, "Thought you didn't are about gossip"  
"It's not gossip, its fact." Sherlock watched John as he clumsily stood from the low bed, his head leaning on his chest and back up a couple of times, "sleep here… you're going to kill you-"

Sherlock stopped himself from mentioning suicide and realised that he'll be doing that a lot now he was back.

Sherlock followed John who was know clumsily walking to the door and steered him back to his bed, "John." He whispered gently, the soldier looked up so he was looking into the taller man's eyes, "I just- I want… You'll be here when I wake up." It was more of a plea than a question, Sherlock held john's arm, squeezing it slightly, "I'll sleep with you" he stated assuming that he'd found the reason that partner's slept together, "Though not _with_ you." He added on a second thought, John chuckled then shook his head, "At least I'll know where you are"

"Clingy" That made John laugh as he was steered back to the small bed and he looked at it closely, it was clean and neat enough but was defiantly not big enough. "It's a bit small… I'm sort of scared I'll break it."

Sherlock took John out into the hall and back down it to a room close to the stairs with a white door. It was dark lie Sherlock's had been but with the lights on the differences where obvious, it was bigger, probably bigger than the living room at the flat. Cream wallpaper with golden boarder all the way around and a double bed against the back wall at the centre, a large painted white wardrobe stood opposite, the only other furniture was a fancy backed arm chair and a box made of dark, glossy wood.

Sherlock waited fro John's reaction for a short while, "Just looking at it makes me drowsy" he said walking to it, "Mycroft won't mind?" he asked, hesitating in the middle of the room.

Sherlock shrugged, a smile slid onto his face when he heard John giggle and match his shrug, "You can't sleep in them" Sherlock nodded at John's Jeans as John jumped onto the bed, landing on his back, facing Sherlock.

Sherlock was opening the wardrobe, John already falling asleep in the soft cushions. "Here" Sherlock's only warning to the clothes aimed at John's head, blue pajamas, John smiled at them then lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock "I'm not changing here".

"Of course"

John got changed in the bathroom down the hall after Sherlock pointed it out, John rushed, a part of him was cared he would go back to an empty room… or worse, he'd wake up.

He knocked on the door before going in; Sherlock was reading a book on the bed, a black V-neck t-shirt and red bottoms.

John heisted, putting his clothes in a neat pile on the box before sliding into the cold sheets next to Sherlock.

Sherlock put his book down and moved the cushions to a lying position, "I'll be here, don't worry" he said gently at John's frown.

He must have been tired because he fell asleep within seconds, with a hold of Sherlock sleeve.


	24. Sentiment and Tea

John had a dream for the first time in ages that night, he was running with Sherlock and everything was back to normal, even the ghosted face of Moran that popper up every now and again didn't bother him. When John woke up the next morning he was relaxed and comfy, he heisted before opening his eyes in case he was back at the flat in the dark, alone. But his clammy palm told him differently.

His hand was still shut around Sherlock's short sleeve, when his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the prising sun form the window to his left he could see Sherlock fully, eyes closed gently, his breathing was steady and slow and his head tilted towards John's face.

John wondered if Sherlock had lay like that so he could see him.

They lay like that for a long while until Sherlock started to stir slightly, John went to the toilet and came back to see an awake Sherlock lifted =on his side with his elbow with a smile on his face.

"Morning" he nodded as John walked towards him.

"Morning," he nodded back, "how long have we been asleep?" John asked realising he hadn't looked at the clock before he slept or when he woke.

Sherlock turned to the table behind his and picked up his watch, "about 15 hours"

"What?" John's mouth gaped open making Sherlock chuckle with a smirk s[reading across his face, "hardly… I don't know I didn't check the time before we nodded off."

"At least we slept."

Sherlock nodded slowly in agreement before a knock on the door made John's conscious awake, he was in Mycroft's house in his(?) clothes with Sherlock and they had shared the bed.

John ducked back into the sheets before realising that that was a bad choice of place but Sherlock had already yelled "Come in" and a short dark haired women in a black and white uniform opened the door, she held a small silver tray with her left hand and held the door open with the right, she eyes Sherlock and John in bed, John smiled but Sherlock frowned, when she spoke she read off the tray slowly with a heavy accent, "Mr Holmes wished to-"

"I'm his brother" Sherlock interrupted.

"Ah, yes… very well then" with that she left the room giving both men a cold draft when she close the door.

"That could have been important"

"She had pants on, of course it wasn't for me"

"Pardon?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, deciding weather or not he was serious (He was)

"The maids in here are never here, usually, he called them in for our guests, the maids have two uniforms, one for family, one for posh people with power. That was the second. If it was for me she wouldn't have come here and if she did she would have asked who I was first."

A smiled tugged at John's lips as Sherlock spoke.

_He'd missed this._

Sherlock gave John another change of clothes, arguing that his shirt was dirty but clearly wasn't. John ended up with a dark green shirt and dark blue jeans, Sherlock had a lose fitting red shirt and black pants that he had to turn up slightly at the bottom so he didn't trip on the stairs.

They went downstairs to a large room at the front of the house that held arm chairs, a roaring fire and long tables filled with plates of food, they took what they could carry, a plate of buttered toast, a tea pot and cups and a bacon sandwich each and went back upstairs to eat what they had made plans for later.

"Can't we go home?" John asked after Sherlock's list of choices.

"Home?"

"Baker Street I mean" John corrected himself, getting some more toast off the visibly delicate white china plate.

Sherlock turned silent and gulped the tea that was sin his mouth when John had added Baker Street.

"It's not been my home in a very long time" He said slowly, picking his words as he went.

"Well it is… can be" John corrected himself again, he forgot Sherlock didn't live there anymore, he had Sherlock's room and various people had accompanied John in the flat in his room but non stayed for very long.

"Well, yes I…. good" Sherlock nodded, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Well can we… go back I mean?" remembering Sherlock's last days… they had to flee from Baker Street when Lestrade had come to arrest him, John followed close behind after hitting the chief in the nose, breaking it.  
after a long pause Sherlock shook his head, "It's not safe… that's why I had you taken to Holmes Manor"

"Should have known that was you and not Mycroft"

"He helped." Sherlock paused then smiled at the soldier, "Moran knows of us but not about us."

"You could be wrong there… Ronald had a theory"

"Yes he did… he told me"

"Geez it never accorded to me that he knew about you're 'death'" John motioned marks in the air with his fingers, "am I the last to know?"

"You and Mrs Hudson"

"Oh I'm going to love this… I hope she hits you"

John chuckled, at least he had found the funny side to the weird turn of events.

"Probably, I deserve nothing more"

"No, you don't" John's smiled faded and they where silent once more, John occupied himself with pouring tea instead of bombarding Sherlock with questions but Sherlock needed to ask unanswered questions himself.

"Yes, why didn't you punch me?" he looked at the doctor with a questioning face.

"Haven't you worked that one out yet?" John smiled to himself, blowing on the steaming cup of fresh milky tea.

Sherlock thought for a second but shook his head, John looked down at his cup and swallowed, "Sentiment"


	25. Going Ho(l)me(s)

Sherlock and John ate what they had taken upstairs and left the plates and cups on the box in the room, gathered up their stuff and made plans to go back Holmes Manor.

"Honestly, I think John should go alone" Mycroft had sad when they asked if he could send for a car.

"Why?" Sherlock had shot back, "it's perfectly safe, you can handle Moran"

"Moran doesn't want us, he wants you, so unless you want a repeat of John's last meeting with him, then do what you want"

"John's safe at mum's, we can handle it if he turns up, he won't because he won't see us" Sherlock argued back.

The brothers argued like this for a while all the while John was stationary at the door to the living room, his heart dropping with every word that came out of Mycroft's mouth, _leaving Sherlock , going alone_.

"Don't I have a say in this?" he spoke up, cutting Mycroft's train of thought.

Both men looked around at John who was pulling on his sleeves at the sudden tension in the room.

Mycroft thought for long while but Sherlock nodded before his brother answered, "of course you do" making Mycroft frown, John hoped it was because Sherlock got it right rather than because he was wrong, before Mycroft could decide John jumped on in, "good… I want to stay with Sherlock. Where he goes, I go."

He looked at the Holmes brothers with a stubbornness about him that made Sherlock grin from ear to ear before turning to Mycroft, "Looks like you got your answer."

Mycroft shook his head slowly then stopped, "I suppose you can go to mummy's while we sort it out"

At Mycroft's words John could see Sherlock's smile fade away and he arms tease.

_He knew how to push his brother into doing what he wanted, ad he wants to get rid of Moran once_ _and for all_ so both John and Mycroft where shocked when he turned on his heel and shrugged, "Sounds fair" and walked out of the room.

John gave Mycroft a questioning look, "looks like you're bringing the best out of him after all, John" he answered John's silent question with a grin and when he said his name he gave John a nod of appreciation before John turned and followed Sherlock's wake out of the living room and outside where a car was parked up with Sherlock already inside ducking to look where John was.

John smiled and got in the car, _it's not home. But it'll do._


	26. I love you too

Sherlock rested in the armchair closest to the door, John was in the one right next to him. The fire roared at their feet as they waited for Sherlock's mum and Ronald to return home.

"Why didn't you stay with Mycroft?" John asked, breaking the comfortable silence that filled the room.

"I wanted to stay with you" Sherlock replied softly.

"I would have stayed to."

Sherlock smiled, John was observing and correcting things around him.

After a short silence Sherlock looked at John who was still waiting patiently for an explanation.

"Sentient" he answered and the silence turned into the laughter.

Mrs Holmes came in and when she heard Sherlock and John laughing in the front room =she smiled and half ran to where they were.

"Sherlock!" hugging him where he sat.

"Mum!" he smiled back, Mrs Holmes looked from Sherlock to John smiling wider than John thought was possible.

"Sherly!" Ronald laughed when he came in, setting a bunch of shopping bags on the floor and letting them be swept back up by the cook who had existed her usual place in the kitchen for the bags and probably a sneak peek at Sherlock.

"Oh honey, it's nice to see you!" Mrs Holmes was smiling as wide as Sherlock now, collapsing into the chair opposite John and Ronald took the one to Sherlock's left.

They spoke about what had happened in the hospital and at Mycroft's, avoiding the convocation of sleeping together of course.

"At least everything's alright with you to… it is, isn't?" Ronald added, slightly scared he was walking over the line.

Sherlock waited for John answer and when he didn't get one he looked over to him with a questioning look, "Yes, of course" John answered hastily.

Everything was okay John to wanted answers, but all he cared about was Sherlock. He was okay and alive and back by his side.

Mrs Holmes and Ronald looked over at each other a few times having a silent convocation about Sherlock and John until they decided to leave, "I'll go and check on cook" Mrs Holmes said as she and Ronald left without another word.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I mean I just… I'm glad you're okay but… 2 years Sherlock, you don't know how much that hurt"

"Oh I do" Sherlock stopped John's train of thought with his words and made his heart feel like it was sliding down his chest causing a guilty pain in his chest.

"I do" Sherlock said again.

John realised what Sherlock was trying to say, John was without Sherlock but Sherlock was without John to.

"I am sorry John. Moriarty had thought of everything. He had assassins targeting Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and you, I couldn't let them… I didn't…" Sherlock's voice had started to crack slightly so he had stopped himself talking.

Mycroft had shared his theory that Moran was aiming a gun at John's head but he didn't know about the others.

John listened to Sherlock's story of what happened on the roof, the insurance Jim had on Sherlock and what Sherlock had figured out.

"I figured he would want to kill me, make me do it myself, so I chose my ground, I had control of that. I tried my best to get out of it or get rid of him, but my time until you came."

John's head span slightly as the deja vu of Sherlock saying those exact words after John had shot the cabbie.

_He'd knew I'd come.__** This time it wasn't a lie.**_

When Sherlock had finished telling him about Molly and the fall, how he had survived John was filled with admiration that he had once mistook for jealousy.

"That's amazing" John let out, without even thinking. Sherlock frowned and looked at John from the corner of his eye, "Really?"

"Of course it was" John smiled back, happy with the fact hat he actually understood what Sherlock was saying and the peace of mind that he was back. The funeral still budded him though. John had been surrounded by family and 'friends' of Sherlock, he only knew Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Sarah, although she came as a shoulder to cry on for John rather than for Sherlock.

John had had to listen to his mum, his uncle, Molly and Mrs Hudson talk about Sherlock, weather it was his work or his brain but no one spoke of his love and compassion or his humour at all so when it was John's turn he had left and talked to the dirt patch on the ground.

"You listened didn't you?" He blurted out.

Sherlock frowned at John as nothing he was thinking of was spoken out loud.

"You were at the funeral. Your funeral. You heard what I said."  
"You left before you-"

"I went to the grave…. I knew someone had followed me I thought it was one of Mycroft's men but I- it was you."

Sherlock lowered his head and nodded, John felt anger fizz up inside of him before he realised what he had said.

I love you.

John's heart dropped and pounded in his chest, he had heard him.

John looked up at Sherlock, expecting him to do his 'married to my work' speech but instead Sherlock stood, the fire making Sherlock into a tall, skinny silhouette as he lowered himself to his knees in front of John's chair, hands on John's knees.

"Why did you only say it when I was dead?"

"You where never dead" John pointed out, Sherlock nodded in agreement for a few seconds, "No I wasn't… so…?" Sherlock smiled and waited.

"I love you too, John"

* * *

**Thanks for the awesome reviews they're very helpful and I'll try to update as much as I can 3**


	27. Peace and Kisses

***Mentions of abuse* -sentimental Sherlock-**

* * *

John's head span slightly even though he was sitting in his chair still as a statue. Everything was going so fast.

Sherlock smiled and tilted his head after a few moments Sherlock bit his lip in worry; maybe this isn't what John wanted.

John finally came to terms with what he had heard and let out a nervous chuckle, his breathe hit Sherlock's lips making him pull them back in, biting his top lip this time.

Sherlock, John attempted to talk but his name came out as a whisper that, in another situation the other person would have classes it as flirtation. Sherlock didn't though, he shook his head. He already knew the possibilities of how John could end that sentence and he disagreed with them all. "I do. Honest and truly do, I just... Never... Knew it, not until I saw you standing with your phone when I was on the roof

_"How romantic,"_ John scoffed low so Sherlock wouldn't hear.

But Sherlock heard it and chuckled, looking away, "it could have been worse, could have been when I was standing over a dead women's body." Sherlock looked back at John who had a horrified look on his face, _of course he noticed. He notices everything._

Sherlock smiled and nodded, he could read Johns face like a picture book, but he would never get bored of it. They sat like that for what felt like hours, Sherlock's forehead gradually got closer to Johns face until it was touching, his forehead and johns lips, they pressed against it gently and they breathed in each other. Both comfortable in each others company, which was a weight, lifted off both men. But the peacefulness didn't last long; Sherlock's phone started to ring, he lent back on the back of his feet, rolled his eyes and answered it.  
"Mycroft" he answered, more for John's benefit than for his or his brother's.  
He told him to hold on a sec as he took the phone away from his ear and pressed 'speaker'.

"Go on"

"Hello John" came Mycroft's voice, deep and calm from the phone.

John smiled and looked up at Sherlock for his approval and replied, "Hey Mycroft"

There was a short pause then, "May I say John, have you been running?"

John frowned at the phone, "No" he replied back, There was a chuckle from Sherlock then a low breathe from Mycroft, they were either having a silent convocation or they had both noticed something about him. Either way he didn't like it, Sherlock was observing John's face for a clue on what he was thinking, as a result Sherlock said, "Your breathe gave you away... pulse rate has quickened."

John thought for a second, realising what they were hinting at and felt his face burning red hot, he pursed his lips together gently, keeping him calm.

"What it is?" Sherlock asked, obviously directing his question at Mycroft.

"Moran himself, not intentionally, of course. He is in London. He was caught by CCTV talking with a man named Roger Harpburn in the earlier hours of this morning that reminds me. Was that you two sneaking food up stairs this morning?"

Is was Sherlock's turn to go red, "Yeah I erm... so this Roger. Have you found him?"

"Yes, located him within minutes, he lives in a-"

"Have e you questioned him?"

"Of course. He claims to have been a stranger claims Moran was simply asking for directions"

"Claiming?" John asked before either brother could speak.

"Claiming, yes. Some friends of mine saw him with Moran more than once. He's hiding something. Would you care to meet him yourself?"

Sherlock hung up without another word, "Why did you do that?"

"Mycroft's trying to get me back on the case"  
"and that's a bad thing?" John asked tilting his head at the detective as he stood up, stretching his long legs and sitting back in his chair.  
"I don't want... Yes it is I just-"  
"I'm not stupid Sherlock. It's me isn't it?"

Sherlock let out a low breathe, "I don't want to lose you"

"You won't"

"I nearly did"

"That's his fault, not yours."

"If I was there-"

"You can't blame yourself for that Sherlock"

"Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?"

Only when Sherlock mentioned it did John realise that he hadn't checked his face or body for injuries, he hadn't thought about them since he found out about Sherlock, maybe sooner. John lowered his head, shaking it from side to side, "that doesn't matter".

"It does to me" Sherlock said, his voice was low and almost painful to hear. It was strained and annoyed, John closed his eyes, "it's not your fault," he whispered again.

Sherlock stood and went back to his place in front of John on his knees and let his hand slid down John's cheek slowly, "I should have been there"

Sherlock and John locked onto each other's eyes; Sherlock's were pale blue, darkened by the lack of light in the room and made John feel a strange sense of peace.

* * *

Mycroft sat in his big cushioned armchair, he was still looking at his phone, and Sherlock had declined an offer to carry on with a case. A case in which Sherlock had refused all help until John had got caught in the crossfire.

He pondered on weather or not to call back, to shout some sense into the boy, because that's exactly what he felt like doing, until Mycroft saw his reflection deep lines of anger creased his forehead, his jaw was clenched and his back tense, now you're dad.

Mycroft shook of the feeling, a 5-year-old Sherlock loomed in his memory, running in ripped shorts around the Manor, past Mycroft and into a glass coffee table, knocking a teapot over and burning himself.

The screams had echoed through the Manor but stopped abruptly when their father had stepped into the room, he shoed their mother away from her crying son, his skin red and blistering on his head and arms.

"Pain will only stop you from doing what is needed" Mycroft pretended not to see his father's giant hand wrap around Sherlock's skinny arm, tears spilled over Sherlock's cheeks but not a sound came out of them

Sherlock never ran in the house again. He hardly ever smiled either.


	28. Moran's unfinished Business

Sherlock showered first, then John.

He dressed in the bathroom and avoided the mirror at all costs that Is until he was brushing his teeth.

His face was red all down one cheek, the one Sherlock kept stroking. When he thought about it he saw his other cheek glow a dull red too.

Sherlock was wearing another disguise and had clothes out ready fro John to. Sherlock's outfit was ripped jeans, biker boots and matching jacket while John's was baggy faded jeans and a flannel shirt.

Pulling on the sleeves slightly he was equipped with a biker jacket too.

"Does this mean-"

"We needed a vehicle that's fast and can cut through traffic. Plus Roger wanted to come along with us"  
"And you said no?"

"Of course he did" Roger's voice boomed from behind John, he had a grey suit on that made him look bigger than usual, his arms bulged in places John hadn't noticed could and his scars made him look off in his pristine suit, "don't worry Sherly. I have a meeting"

Sherlock's eyes where narrow, skimming and scanning the suit, "Is that what you're calling house parties these days?"

Roger open and closed his moth a few times before a grin made it's way across his face, matched by John's.

Sherlock packed him and John some clean clothes into the motorbike and then left after a quick goodbye with Roger and Sherlock's mum.

The drive to Scotland Yard was a fast one; John sat behind Sherlock, clinging onto his waist for dear life and there wasn't much time for chatting so John ended up laying his head to the side on Sherlock's back as the blur of London passed by.

When they got there Lestrade was waiting for them, he took them to his office and in a matter of minutes they were changed into their clothes and set down many corridors with Lestrade in lead.

"I feel naked" Sherlock moaned while Lestrade was talking with Anderson who wanted to know why Sherlock was allowed back in.

"What… you miss your coat or your leather jacket" John smirked as Sherlock's eyes narrowed on him.

"Look it's my call you all know he's innocent don't let some stupid judgment get in the way of work Anderson"

With that Anderson left giving both Sherlock and John an evil glare as he left.

Harpburn was in a observatory room alone, a full walled room with one wall filled by one way window a table with four chairs round it he was slumped into one of them; he was a lanky man with wispy brown hair that lay in curls on his forehead. He had sharp stubble on his chin and neck and was battered blue and red.

When he saw John and Sherlock enter with Lestrade a wide grin showed his teeth some missing and chipped.

"Thought I'd be meeting you" his voice wasn't British but it sounded like he tried hard to make it fit in.

Sherlock was quiet as the three of them took a seat and Lestrade gave John his file that was filled with nothing but a few speed photos and a couple of CCTV snap shots of Moran and Harpburn.

John wasn't exactly sure when the questioning began but it did and Sherlock was in control. For a long while he was anyway, Lestrade had an input but Harpburn had made the case personal, _or was it that that made Sherlock so keen to lock him up and find Moran? Was it the fact Moriarty was their employer?_

"John? Are you even listening" Sherlock moaned making John abandon his questions "Hm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a sigh, "did you see Harpburn?"

John thought for a second, technically he didn't see Moran for most of it.

He ended up just shaking his head, squeezing his eyes; _does the light have to be so bright?_

"Maybe the injuries are worse than you think Mr Holmes" Harpburn practically snarled at the detective making him stammer before continuing his talk with Lestrade.

"You don't look very good Johno. You okay?" Harpburn asked with a smile, Sherlock turned to his friend with a worried look on his face, "Lestrade can you take John to-"

"I'm fine" John cut Sherlock shaking his head slightly.

John sat up taller and looked around the room and he hoped it was the paint that made his eyes watery.

"John go with Lestrade"

"I'll go get someone-" Lestrade started Harpburn; all the while had a grin plastered on his face, Sebby didn't fail me this time. He hissed as Sherlock and Lestrade took John under the arms and out of the room leaving Harpburn laughing manically.

Sherlock re-entered the room with pure hatred and anger in his eyes, "what's happening to him?"

"You're the scientist. _Figure it out_"

Sherlock was then taken out of the room by a worried Lestrade, his fists and body where still tense when he turned to John who was leaning on a wall just outside the room.


	29. The Night at St Bart's

_Drugs?_ No it's timed to well

_Head injury?_ It would have been noticed at the hospital

That's where Sherlock's theories stopped; his attention was on the nauseous doctor next to him as they rode in the police car to St Bart's

They spent the rest of the day in the lab with Molly, they tested spit, blood, cells, skin, hair and urine of John Watson and came up with nothing, Molly got hold of a friend in the hospital and ordered an MRI but all was well.

Sherlock sat in the high chair at his desk staring at his sleeping friend who had fallen asleep with a few seconds of lying down between two chairs. "I can't lose him" he muttered to himself. More than a statement, it was a confession. He was glad no one but him heard it but felt like he needed to tell John. "I'm an idiot without, inhuman even. I'm… _better_… with you" he carried on gently, leaning his elbows on his knees so he was closer to John.

It was a couple of hours before John woke up; Sherlock was asleep on the chair opposite him, his coat draped over him.

John's eyes took a minute to adjust in the dark room and he slowly remembered the night before.

His examination results where spread out on the desk Sherlock had claimed for himself; brain scans, blood samples, and every other means of testing where scattered across it along with notes that Sherlock had torn then put back together and torn even smaller out of frustration.

He looked at the sleeping detective, holding back the urge to touch him. The urge he had been trying to stop ever since he saw him in the hospital. To make sure he was real… alive.

John took a deep breath and headed out of the lab. He needed fresh air.

John took to the stairs before he even confessed to himself where he was going. He carried up and out to the roof of St Bart's hospital, cold air hit his face as he stepped out, his cloths and hair where pushed by the wind to one side. John walked across the roof to the edge and looked out onto London, some buildings reflected light off into his eyes, some hid blunt in the wind, invisible as people walked past.

John stood admiring the view for a while before he heard the door slam shut by the wind, making him jump and turn; Sherlock was walking steadily towards him, eyeing the edge of the building. "John…" He called gently, he was standing beside him now, casually checking his vital signs, his eyes, lips, neck, legs where all fine. That's when he noticed his hand shaking under his sleeve, the logical course of action would have been to investigate it, to question it. But he had seen John's hand like that before, when Sherlock was dead.

Instead he snaked his hand around John's, giving it an encouraging squeeze, "I'm here" he said gently making John laugh nervously. "I hate you" John whispered back, "Love you too" Sherlock smiled back, making John shake his head and mutter "Idiot" as they turned from the edge and back inside, as symbiotic 'the past is the past' moments go, John was pretty happy with his.


End file.
